


The Lion, the Wolf, and the Free Folk

by Callie



Series: Narnia and the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Eventual Romance, F/M, I didn't hate season 8, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2020-03-14 17:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 130,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18952996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie/pseuds/Callie
Summary: Jon Snow leads the Free Folk beyond the Wall and goes further than he ever imagined.





	1. The Lamp Post

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite part of Game of Thrones season eight was everything that was left open to interpretation and the potential for the future adventures of House Stark. My least favorite part of The Chronicles of Narnia/The Last Battle was Susan's exclusion from Narnia. Thus, a fic.
> 
> Set at the end of GoT Season 8 and during the events of The Horse and His Boy*. GoT canon is from the show, with some background/history/logistics/trivia from the books. Narnia canon is primarily the books but some visuals and language are definitely from the movies and it will take a hard AU turn after the siege of Anvard.
> 
> * If you only know the Narnia movies, The Horse and His Boy is a story that happens during the "Golden Age" of Narnia, which was the Pevensies' 15-year reign at the end of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. It happens about a year before they chase the White Stag and go back to England. If you haven't read it, I think there's enough context in the fic that you won't be lost. :)
> 
> edit 9/25/2019: so, I didn't want to have to say this, but I'm going to. I did NOT HATE SEASON EIGHT and I have zero interest in discussing whether it "sucked" or not. Please don't leave me comments talking about how Daenerys was "done dirty" (this fic isn't about her, though I do talk about how what happened with her affects other characters), or how Sansa needs to be "dealt with" for "betraying Jon" (she didn't), or whatever rant you have about whatever your issue was with season eight. If you want to leave a comment on the fic and any aspect of it, please do! I love chatting about it. But if you just want to rant about how the show sucks, how Sansa sucks, why I'm not writing about Daenerys or you don't agree with what I've written about her, then please take yourself to r/freefolk or find one of the hundreds of "season eight fix it fics" that are on this site. I have made it pretty clear what ships and characters are in this fic via tags so that you can see what it's about and choose whether this is something you want to spend your time with. It really sucks to put a lot of work into a fic and then get excited when there's a comment notification only to find out that the comment has nothing to do with what I wrote and is just complaining that I didn't write about a certain character.

  

> _Your Grace,_
> 
> _I have news concerning the white wolf that cannot be trusted to a raven. Permit me to come north to share this information with you. Time is of the essence._
> 
> _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King to Bran the Broken, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_
> 
>  

Sansa has read the scroll half a hundred times since she received it, and another half a hundred after she replied to invite Tyrion north. No matter how many times she rereads it, she cannot imagine what news about Jon cannot be trusted to a raven. She has wondered in the last few moons if it might be politically feasible for her, or Bran, or both of them, to pardon Jon for his crime--a term Sansa uses only in the loosest of ways, as she sees removing Daenerys Targaryen from Westeros an unfortunate necessity, not a crime--but if Bran were considering it as well, that would not be something Tyrion could not trust to a raven.

The lack of a _please_ before _permit me to come north to share this information with you_ concerns her. Not because she sees it as a breach of manners, but because Tyrion has always been unfailingly polite to her. Their experience in the crypts of Winterfell sealed the goodwill between them. His correspondence in the last months to settle such things necessary for good relations between the North and the Six Kingdoms has been warm, and hers has been warm in equal measure. Tyrion chooses his words deliberately. To receive such a curt message from him is as much a message as the words themselves.

Thankfully, she is not kept waiting overlong. Tyrion's party makes good time up the kingsroad, avoiding most of the muds of the early spring thaw, the bronze and black banners of Bran's raven sigil shining in the sun. Sansa receives him seated on the Throne of Winter in Winterfell's great hall. His party is small, consisting only of himself, Ser Brienne in the armor of Bran's Kingsguard, and a few household guards, sturdy men who look well used to hard travel.

After they've shared bread and salt, Sansa invites Tyrion and Brienne to join her in her solar, where she welcomes them more informally. "It's good to see you both," she says, leaning down to kiss Tyrion's cheek and reaching up to embrace Brienne.

"It's good to see you as well, Your Grace," Tyrion says.  
  
"There's no need for formalities among friends," Sansa says in return. "Please, call me Sansa." "I wish it were under better circumstances," Brienne sighs. "But I'm afraid we have disturbing news."

Sansa gestures to a group of chairs around a low table. "Please, sit down." A serving girl brings wine, and Tyrion waits until she leaves and the door is closed well behind her before he speaks.

"I don't claim to understand the extent of Bran's… powers any more than you do," Tyrion says. "I understand that he can see through the eyes of animals and birds, and the occasional weirwood tree, but beyond that... " Tyrion shrugs. "In any case, he's been keeping an eye on Jon, mostly through seeing through the eyes of ravens. He wanted to ensure Jon's safety beyond the wall, and have an idea where to find him should it be necessary. I'd hoped we could pardon him, in time," Tyrion admits.

"As did I," Sansa says. "He should never have been punished in the first place."

"No. He shouldn't. But it was necessary to avoid yet another war." Tyrion sips at his goblet of wine, then sets it aside. "I wrote you because Bran hasn't been able to see Jon for some weeks now. He tried day and night, but all he could see was snow."

There's a knot in the pit of Sansa's stomach. "He's not with the free folk anymore?" She had sent sent a messenger to Tormund at Castle Black to let him know that Jon was arriving; with his friend and Ghost at his side, Sansa thought he would be safe no matter where he might go. "Jon would never leave them behind, nor they him. Tormund is his most loyal, most trusted friend."

"Bran can't see the free folk either," Tyrion says quietly. "Not the free folk, not Tormund, and not even Ghost. They've simply vanished."

 

*****

 

Tormund and Jon have no plan for where they will go or what they will do when they leave Castle Black. Their party is on foot, save the two of them, so their progress is slow, and their numbers are small. The free folk have fought so many battles--the battle on the Wall, Hardhome, the battle of the Bastards, and the battle for the Dawn--that there are few of them left. Jon wonders if their numbers will ever be what they were before they came south. Even if they do grow their numbers, they'll never be as they once were, individual tribes with their own distinct personalities and cultures. The lines between the clans of the ragtag bunch that's left have already begun to blur, and there are times Jon can no longer tell who was a Hornfoot and who was from the Ice River clans.

When they feel like making camp, they make camp; when they are ready to move again, they move on. At first the free folk look to Jon to make decisions about when they should stay or go, or whether they should take this fork or that, but after Jon deflects to Tormund a dozen times they stop asking him and turn to Tormund instead.

It's exactly as Jon wants it. He doesn't want to make decisions for anyone else for the rest of his life. The remaining black brothers had tried to make him Lord Commander again, but Jon would not hear of it. He is simply a ranger now, and he can range beyond the Wall with the remainder of the free folk for as long as he pleases and no one will care.

They follow the Milkwater north, along the edge of the Haunted Forest. Past the Fist of the First Men, past the Skirling Pass, and then they are in lands that Jon has never seen. Tormund's well acquainted with these lands, though, and he has stories about them. Of course, most of Tormund's stories are horseshit, but it's horseshit that Jon doesn't mind listening to because it's better than listening to his own thoughts. Best of all, Tormund never really expects a reply, and his long, rambling tales don't allow time for anyone to ask him questions about what happened when he went south.

After some days of traveling, after one of Tormund's more ridiculous stories, he says, "Your sister, the ginger one. Not the one with a knife. She sent a message that you were coming to Castle Black. Told me to wait for you. Said you'd killed the Dragon Queen."

"Aye," Jon says. "I did." He doesn't take his eyes from the path ahead of them.

"Then it needed to be done, little crow," Tormund says simply, as if it's as clear to him as the blue sky above them. And he never mentions it again.

Tormund decides he wants to see if there is anyone left of the free folk who didn't come south with Mance Rayder. Jon doesn't see how that's possible; anyone who didn't come south with Mance would have been caught up by the Night King's army, but Tormund wants to be sure. The only way to do that is to go and see for themselves. After they pass the Forktop, they go east into the Haunted Forest to the lands of the Hornfoot clans--or what used to be the lands of the Hornfoot clans. There's nothing left of them now, as Jon suspected. Only the tall and silent ironwoods, sentinel pines, and oaks remain surrounding what once was the settlement of the Hornfoot clans. A blanket of snow mutes the sounds of wildlife and gives everything an eerie, solemn cast.

As the sun starts to set, they're debating whether or not to make camp here or at the edge of the forest when a flicker of light catches Jon's eye. Curious, he turns his horse toward the light, and Ghost shoots ahead of him in a flash of fur. The light is so faint that at first, Jon thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. As he moves deeper into the woods, the light grows brighter and brighter until he comes upon the strangest of sights--a glass and metal lantern atop a metal pole, with a warm, flickering flame inside it.

There's no one in the forest. Jon is sure of it; they've ridden for days in the forest and seen no signs of life besides the game they catch. They've seen no humans save themselves since they left Castle Black. There is no one within several weeks' riding distance, yet here is a flame that burns as cleanly as if it's just been lit. Even the magic of the Lord of Light needs a red priest or priestess to make it work, and again, they've seen no one save themselves.

Within minutes, the rest of the free folk have caught up to Jon, a low murmur of confusion rippling through the group. Tormund is convinced it means there are remnants of the Hornfoot clans somewhere about, while two men in their party _from_ the Hornfoot clans say they've never seen anything like this in their lives. A woman from the Ice River clans says it's an omen of evil. Whether to go forward or back becomes an argument that goes on for so long Jon thinks it will never end, and even Tormund is caught up in it, getting down from his horse to shout at the Ice River clanswoman, and all the while, Ghost stands just past the edge of the circle of light cast by the strange lantern, staring off into the distance, his one good ear pricked foward as if listening intently.

"Enough!" Jon says, and as it's the first time he's spoken to the entire group, they fall silent. "We'll decide together whether to go forward or turn back. Whatever the majority decides, we all go. We stay together, whatever happens. If you want to go forward, show your hands." Slowly, a few at a time, then more, raise their hands, and Jon counts them. "And now, those that want to turn back."

They're evenly divided. Tormund is on the side of those who want to go forward, and Jon thinks if Ghost had a vote, he would say the same, given his fascination with staring at whatever he can see beyond the circle of light. It's that that convinces Jon they should not turn back. "Then we'll go forward. But not tonight. We'll camp here and continue on in the morning."

There is grumbling at the decision, but no outright argument, and the group breaks apart to set up their small tents and bedrolls. Jon tends to his horse, glancing at the gathered free folk; some have moved as far from the light of the lantern as they dare, others have made their beds as close to the lantern as they can. It's the most they've been spread out since they left Castle Black.

Is he doing the right thing? He feels he does not know his mind anymore. He'd thought following Daenerys had been the right thing, thought remaining loyal to her was the right thing, thought _loving_ her was the right thing. While he'd been right about needing her help with the Night King and the Army of the Dead, he'd been wrong about everything else. _So_ wrong. Then he'd thought killing her was the right thing, and even now it doesn't feel right. _Ask me in ten years,_ Tyrion had said.

Now he's agreeing with Tormund that they ought to go forward, but what if he's leading the free folk into danger when he's _not even their leader_ in the first place?  Jon makes his own bed at the edge of the lantern's light. The warm glow helps ease his mind, somewhat, but it's only when Ghost returns to him and licks his face that Jon is eased enough to sleep a little.

In the morning, they press forward into the woods. There is less grumbling in the light of day. Perhaps it's that the air seems a bit sweeter as they venture on, and something about that puts the group in a better mood, even those who were determined to turn back the night before. The sky is a little brighter, and Jon could swear that the snow is whiter and the trees greener than they were even an hour ago. It's such a pleasant journey that they stop a little earlier than usual at a nice open spot with a river nearby.

Jon and Tormund water their horses and set to catching some fish in the river, while children gather firewood and others go off to hunt, returning some time later with a string of the largest rabbits Jon has ever seen and a pair of equally fat squirrels. There are even some early spring berries Jon has never seen before, tiny sweet ones that burst on the tongue.  It's a fine supper they have that night. Even the water from the river tastes delicious, though Jon is not so foolish to say such a thing out loud. He pulls a bit of rabbit meat from the bone and tosses it to Ghost. The big direwolf doesn't touch it, which surprises Jon. Instead he turns his snout away, resting his head on his paws with a little huff of breath that would be disgust if it came from a man.

"You've already had your fill today, boy?" he asks, scratching him behind his good ear.  The wound where his other ear was torn off in battle has healed nicely, and his fur that was singed has begun to grow back.  Jon puts the rabbit aside and takes up some fish, flaking it from the bones before offering it to Ghost. The wolf gulps it down, nudging at his hand for more, so Jon shares the rest of his fish with him and has a handful of berries, finding he has no more appetite for the rabbit than Ghost does. Somewhere nearby, Jon hears the soft hoot of an owl and a rush of wings that quickly fades as the sun sets, replaced by the sound evening sounds of crickets and frogs and the rushing river beyond them.

That night's sleep begins far more restfully than the night before, but is cut short before dawn when Jon wakes abruptly to the sound of shouts and clanging steel. Jon yanks Longclaw from its sheath, on his feet in an instant, as a score of heavily armored mounted knights burst through their camp. It's only when a pair of them nearly mows him down that he realizes that what he's seeing are not mounted knights but enormous creatures with the torso, arms, and faces of men and the legs and body of warhorses, and he nearly drops his sword in shock. He's heard of centaurs, long ago in some of Old Nan's stories, but he had never thought they were real.  It's a quick, fierce battle and though there are more free folk than centaurs by at least eight to one, the centaurs are armored, with the element of surprise and better steel. They overwhelm them as swiftly as Stannis Baratheon's armies overwhelmed Mance's forces beyond the Wall.

There are so few free folk left. Jon has no wish to see them wiped out by these creatures.

And one of them has Ghost at the point of a sword.

"Drop your weapons," he tells the free folk, and tosses Longclaw to the ground.  Tormund makes a sound of disgust, but he drops his weapon as well. Jon glances around, and as the free folk drop their weapons he realizes that though the centaurs' attack had been swift and brutal and many of the free folk are wounded, none are dead--at least not yet. Their intent had clearly been to capture. Not to kill.

"There has been a murder," says one of the centaurs. It is only then that Jon sees their banners, a golden lion on a field of red that looks for all the world like the Lannister sigil--but there are no more Lannisters save Lord Tyrion, and he's in the south, with Bran.

"We've seen no one for weeks," Jon says. He still cannot believe he is talking to a creature with the face of a man and the body of a horse, and surely they cannot know anything that happened in the south. "We've harmed no one. There's been no one _to_ harm."

"An entire family of Rabbits and a pair of Squirrels were taken from their homes yesterday," says the centaur. "We have witnesses who saw your people kill them and cook them over your fires."

"If it's poaching you think we've done, then I'm sorry," Jon says, "but we didn't realize these were your lands. We'll leave right now and not come this way again." He can't imagine any high lord being so upset about a few rabbits and squirrels, and certainly not upset enough to call it _murder_.

"Poaching!" The centaur stamps his hooves in indignation, and a murmur of agitation ripples through the company. "You have committed _murder_ , murder of free Narnians! There are few greater crimes." By this time, the rest of the centaurs have surrounded the encampment of free folk, bristling with steel, while others move about the free folk and collect their weapons. "In the name of the King Peter the Magnificent, High King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel and Emperor of the Lone Islands, I arrest you on the charge of murder."

"Narnia?" asks Tormund. "What is Narnia? Some kneeler castle?"

The centaur gestures around them. "This is Narnia," he says. "Everything from the Lamp-Post in the west to Cair Paravel in the east, from the mountains in the north to Mount Pire in the south."

"These are the Hornfoot lands," Tormund says. "Belonging to the free folk of the true north."

"You're quite mistaken," says the centaur. "You are under the jurisdiction of the Kings and Queens of Narnia, and will be taken to Cair Paravel to await the judgement of Their Majesties."

A knot forms in the pit of Jon's stomach at that. He had been content with his sentence of exile because it took him away from politics and scheming and the laws of men, returning him to the place where he'd truly been happiest. To Jon, it had been more of a gift than a punishment. Perhaps Sansa and Arya had known it would be when they'd agreed to his sentence. And now, somehow, he's stumbled into a place with yet more of the same--no, he's _led_ the free folk into a place with the very thing they were returning north to get away from. _Jon_ led them into it, as it was his vote that decided whether to go forward or turn back.  

It takes the better part of a week to cross this country of Narnia. The centaur had said _from the Lamp-post in the west to Cair Paravel in the east_ , and Jon assumes that the "lamp-post" is the lantern on a metal pole in the forest and Cair Paravel is where he'd said he was taking them. Their captors have taken their weapons and bound the hands of all the adults among the free folk. But they do not bind the hands of the children in their party, nor do they harm Ghost, though they give him a wide berth and wary looks. The pace they set is a reasonable one, not a punishing one, despite the fact that the centaurs could clearly take a faster pace with little effort if they chose.

After a day's travel, they emerge from the woods and cross a river, bringing them to a long, flat plain that is an easy walk that would be pleasant if they weren't prisoners. Here the snow is far lighter and beginning to melt, with lush, fresh grass and early flowers springing up through the snow, and the sky above them seems brighter and bluer than anything Jon has ever seen anywhere on either side of the Wall. Another two days and the snow is gone entirely. They come across no one along the way, not a single person besides themselves, no towns or settlements or camps. Whatever Narnia is, it seems to be inhabited by nothing but small game and these centaurs.

The last day of travel brings them within sight of of a great castle, and on the breeze Jon can smell the tang of salt air from the sea. The castle looks much like any great castle of Westeros, and the red and gold lion banners give it an air of what he imagines Casterly Rock must look like.

But as they approach the castle, it's very clear that this castle--more specifically, the _inhabitants_ of this castle--are nothing like those of Casterly Rock or any other castle in Westeros or anywhere else in the known world.  There are more centaurs at the outer gate, clad in shining golden lion armor, and with them creatures with the upper bodies of men with the lower bodies of goats--and both these creatures and the centaurs at the gate are a mixed company, male and female. Within the castle's outer walls are a mix of creatures Jon cannot believe he is seeing. There are leopards and shadowcats, horses and even a pair of great brown bears--and what truly makes Jon think he has taken leave of his senses is that all of these animals are _talking_. The animals are speaking with the common tongue of humans. There are a few humans in the crowd, Jon sees then, speaking with the animals as if it is a completely normal thing. And then he sees the smaller creatures in the crowd, dogs almost as big as Ghost, crows and pigeons and eagles, and mice and rabbits and squirrels and hedgehogs thrice again as large as any he's ever seen in Westeros. All of these creatures are talking and doing the sorts of things humans in a castle might do: the pair of brown bears mending wagon wheels, a striped badger smithing metal, a team of rabbits unloading baskets of vegetables from a cart, and three beavers with checkered kerchiefs rolling barrels along a narrow alleyway. It looks much like the daily goings on of Winterfell, only with animals in the place of many of the people.

It's then that Jon realizes exactly why the centaurs were so furious over a string of rabbits and a pair of squirrels, why they named it _murder_ instead of simple poaching. The rabbits and squirrels the free folk brought down with their arrows and snares were not simply rabbits and squirrels. They were beings with thought and speech and free will, same as any human man or woman. _Ghost tried to warn me_ , Jon thinks, and there is a sickening lurch in his belly when he thinks about what he nearly ate. Eating those creatures makes them no better than Thenns.

A glance at Tormund next to him confirms his friend is coming to that same realization.

Jon hardly notices the rest of the castle as they move through it; he walks over the fine marble floors and below the high vaulted ceilings and sees little of any of it, though he's aware of the soft click of Ghost's claws on the marble as he trots alongside him. Jon is too busy thinking of what he will say to this High King Peter regarding what they've done to his subjects to think about anything else. Ignorance of the situation is their only defense, but it seems a poor one, and whether they meant harm or not, those free Narnians, as the centaurs called them, are still dead. It would be considered a brutal death, had it happened to humans and is likely to be seen so by this King Peter. He does not want to see the free folk wiped from existence for an honest mistake, even if it a horrible one.

By the time they arrive in the great hall of Cair Paravel, Jon has somewhat of a plan.

The hall is an enormous one, twice the size of Winterfell's hall and floored in pale marble. One wall has a bank of windows in colored glass, the opposite wall opens onto a wide balcony facing the sea, and the far end has one enormous colored glass window behind a dais with four marble thrones. Only one of the thrones is currently occupied, by a beautiful woman with dark hair and a slim golden crown. Jon was expecting a king. He wonders if he will need to rethink his plan.

One of the goat-men steps forward. "You stand in the presence of Susan the Gentle, Queen of Narnia," he says. Jon does not think the queen looks gentle at all.

The centaurs in their escort bow to the queen, and their captain speaks. "Queen Susan," he says, "these humans were taken just outside the Western Woods, arrested for murdering and eating eleven of Your Majesty's subjects. There are witnesses."

"Who speaks for you?" asks the queen.

"I do." Jon steps forward without hesitation. Somewhere behind him, Tormund mutters under his breath. "My name is Jon Snow, Your Grace."

"You are the leader of these people, Jon Snow?"

"I am, Your Grace." Jon is no one's leader, in truth. Not anymore. But he convinced the free folk to come south, to fight in his wars against the Boltons and the Night King. Those wars have whittled their numbers down to almost nothing. One more blow and the free folk will be wiped out entirely. If Jon can prevent that from happening by lying about being their leader, then lie he will. He must get them out of this castle alive, out of this country, and back to the lands beyond the Wall.

"Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

Jon steps forward enough that the queen can hear him clearly without him raising his voice to her. "Your Grace, we come from a land called Westeros. We were exploring the northernmost parts of our land when we came upon a lamp-post in the snow we had never seen before. Most of them wanted to turn back, but I insisted we go forward. I had no idea we were in your lands, and I had no idea that the rabbits and squirrels I took were anything but ordinary rabbits and squirrels. In Westeros, animals don't talk. I see now that the animals here have free will and free thought just like humans do. I never would have killed them if I had known they were different. I was only trying to feed my people. I know it doesn't make it any better," Jon adds, "and it doesn't bring them back. But it was truly an honest mistake."

The queen rises from her throne and steps down from the dais. When she stands, Jon can see that her dark hair falls almost to her feet.  "You are not the first people to stumble into Narnia from another world unawares," she says. "And I understand that you could not have known of the special creatures of Narnia. But it is our duty to protect them, and eleven Narnians had their lives taken from them in a brutal way. That cannot go unpunished."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"I must speak to the witnesses, and I must wait until my brothers and sister return from their travels. A decision on something so serious cannot be made alone. I expect them all back within a fortnight. In the meantime, you will be held in our dungeons." She frowns, glancing at the children among the free folk, then turns to the captain of the centaurs. "Please ensure that the children are not separated from their parents. Send a healer to tend anyone with injuries."

The dungeons of Cair Paravel can hardly be called dungeons, in Jon's opinion.  Jon is placed in a room about the size his sleeping cell at Castle Black had been, before he became Lord Commander, and in rather better repair, clean and tidy with a small window. Ghost is allowed to stay with him. Later, one of the goat-men brings water for washing, and later still another brings a simple supper of stew and bread. Jon cannot see any of the other cells, even when he goes to the door and tries to look out the small window there. The angle is all wrong. But he can hear somewhat of the others' voices. No one is happy about being imprisoned, of course. But as far as Jon can tell, no one has been mistreated, and the queen's order that children not be separated from their parents seems to have been carried out.

The next day, the centaur captain returns to the dungeon, and Jon hears him speaking with this person and that, bringing the healer again to those who need it. Otherwise, the dungeons are quiet. It's late afternoon when the captain stops at Jon's cell.

"Queen Susan wishes to speak with you," says the captain. "Please come with me."

"And my wolf?" Jon asks. "May he come as well?" There is something about this place that makes Jon not want Ghost out of his sight, a feeling he can't quite put into words. He's prepared to insist if need be, but the captain has no objection and Ghost follows him out of the dungeons.

He is not taken to the great hall with the four thrones. Instead, the captain takes him to a small courtyard, well shaded, with long tendrils of ivy dripping from stone walls and low beds of flowers and plants interrupting neat gravel paths. The queen is seated in one of a handful of cushioned chairs around a low table set for tea.

"The prisoner, Jon Snow, Your Majesty," says the captain with a small bow.

"Thank you, Orieus," says the queen. The captain leaves and the queen gestures to the chair opposite her. "Please sit, Jon Snow."

Jon sits, and Ghost flops at his feet, his nose on his paws and his red eyes half-closed. Queen Susan looks at Ghost for a long moment, almost wary, then turns her attention to Jon again.

"Would you like some tea?" She does not wait for Jon's reply, reaching for the teapot to pour out two cups, then passing one to Jon. "I would hear your story again, if you would, of everything that happened after you passed the Lamp-Post."

Jon cradles the porcelain cup in his hands but does not drink. "After we traveled past the Lamp-Post, we kept moving until we came to the river, where I decided we would make camp for the night. Tormund and the others caught some fish, I sent the children to gather firewood, and I caught the Rabbits and Squirrels. By the time I came back with the Rabbits and Squirrels, the others had eaten their fill of fish and berries, so they didn't want any. I was the only one that ate them. But if I had known that they were creatures as intelligent as humans, I never would have done it."

The queen listens to his story. Then she puts aside her tea cup and rings a small silver bell. A moment later there is a soft rustle of wings, and a large brown owl swoops down to perch on the chair beside her. Jon suddenly feels as though he is standing on rotten ice.

"Jon Snow, this is Persephone," says Queen Susan. "She was in the Western Wood when you and your people made camp by the Great River. Persephone, will you speak again of what you saw that night?"

Persephone ruffles her feathers, tipping her head this way and that, regarding Jon with large amber eyes. "The fur-people camped by the river, Your Majesty," she says, in exactly the sort of voice that Jon would have imagined an Owl to have, if he had ever imagined an Owl to speak in the Common Tongue (which of course he had not). "The small ones went to gather wood for their fires, this one and the ginger one went to the river to catch fish, and some of the ones wearing bones on their furs went out with bows and snares and came back with Rabbits and Squirrels. All of the fur-people shared in all the meat, except for this one and the wolf. He gave some to the wolf, but the wolf would not eat, then this one did not eat. It was then that I left to sound the alarm."

"Thank you, Persephone."  The Owl bows to the queen and is gone in two flaps of her wings, and the queen turns her attention back to Jon. "It's admirable that you would like to protect your people, Jon Snow. But I do not appreciate being lied to."

Jon sets his cup aside. "Of course not, Your Grace. I expect you don't like hearing lies anymore than I like telling them."

"I don't." She glances at Ghost, still half asleep at Jon's feet. "Why didn't your wolf eat the meat?"

"I don't know. He didn't seem to like the smell of it, I suppose. Perhaps he was trying to warn me that something wasn't right." Jon remembers feeling a sense of something like disgust, himself, when he'd offered it to Ghost, enough that he'd lost his appetite. "It's not like Ghost to turn down food. He's always eating. But he's not a normal wolf, he's a direwolf. He's larger than the regular kind."

"And smarter, too, I think. Orieus tells me that the sword he took from you at the Great River has a wolf carved into the pommel. What is your connection with wolves?"

"The direwolf is the sigil of my house," Jon replies. But it isn't, now, is it? He's not a Stark, in truth, but he isn't a dragon, either. Not truly. _Fire and blood_ is not how he wants to live his life. "Ghost was the runt of a litter of pups we found years ago. Their mother was dead, and they couldn't survive on their own so we took them for our own."

"I have never heard of House Snow," says Queen Susan. "Then again, I have never heard of Westeros, either. The land of Telmar lies past the Lantern Waste, and no one knows what lies beyond Telmar. Are you certain that you've no other association with wolves, besides being the sigil of your house?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Do you know anything about the White Witch, Jadis?"

"I've never heard of anyone named such, Your Grace."

The queen drums her fingertips lightly against the arm of her chair. "I spoke to your friend Tormund, earlier," she says, watching him carefully. Jon expects she's trying to determine if he's lying to her about anything else. "He says his people are called the free folk. He also says that you are not their leader."

_Gods damn this woman_ , Jon thinks. He has had a belly full of kings and queens and crowns to last him for a lifetime and then some. If he never sees another one, it will be the greatest mercy the gods can give him. "I was their leader, once, in a way," Jon admits. "Or the closest thing to it. I'm not, anymore."

"Then why did you say you were? And why are you trying to accept responsibility for something you had no part in?"

"Because I _did_ have a part in it!" Jon says, losing some of his patience with this incessant questioning. At his feet, Ghost thumps his tail against the ground, his ears flattening against his head, and the queen shifts back a little in her chair. "The free folk have done everything I asked them to do and more, one war after another, and many of them died for it. The men, women, and children in your dungeons are the only ones left of dozens of tribes and clans that have lived in the north of our land for thousands of years, and _I_ led them here when I was supposed to be leading them to live in peace. Most of them wanted to turn back when we saw your Lamp-Post and go another way, and I insisted we go forward. I wanted to see what lay beyond that light. I brought them here, so I'm responsible if anything happens to them. And I will _not_ allow them to be wiped off the face of the world."

"And _I_ cannot protect my people if I simply allow their killers to go free," Queen Susan replies, and though a faint flush creeps across her pale skin, her voice is even and firm. "I _know_ your people did not understand what they were doing, and I _know_ they would not have done it, had they realized. But it has been done, and now my brothers and sister and I will have to find a way to see justice done for them and temper it with the mercy that an honest mistake deserves."

She folds her hands in her lap, glancing down at Ghost and back to Jon again. "I am sorry that this means that you and your people may have to wait for some time before we can decide what can be done," she says. "But I want be sure that the decision we make is as fair as it can be both to the families of those who were killed and to your people as well."

 *****

Sansa has never been further north than the Wall. As a child, she never ventured far from Winterfell, though once she had ridden to White Harbor with her father when he went on some business. Her first real journey anywhere had when she went south to King's Landing when her father was made King Robert's Hand. Then later, after escaping from Winterfell and Ramsay Bolton, she had gone further north than she ever had before, taking refuge at the Wall with Jon. She and Jon had traveled all over the north to try to gain support for their efforts to retake Winterfell. That was as much of the north as Sansa thought she would ever see in her life.

And now, she is going even further north, to find Jon Snow.

Her small council is in an upheaval over her decision. They did not take the news well. "The Queen in the North should stay in the north," said Lord Manderly, whom she had named her Hand. "Not venture beyond the Wall like a man of the Night's Watch." Some others of her council had murmured agreement.

"My lords," Sansa had said. "If you think I will let my brother vanish into nothing without seeing his fate with my own eyes, you are very much mistaken. My lord father used to say, _the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ I will not allow my brother to die a lone wolf when we are only free of the Dragon Queen's tyranny because of what he did for us."

There is still some dissent after that, but far less than before. Sansa ignores it; she has considered all the evidence for and against this journey, and now she has made her decision. The time for discussion is over. She has every intention of returning to Winterfell. But she is not foolish enough to leave anything to chance. She leaves behind a document naming Arya her heir in the event she does not return, and has sent three messengers west at great expense to search for Arya, not only to let her know of this document but to let her know what has happened to Jon, as well. Arya would want to know, Sansa thinks.

Sansa is not going alone. She is not so foolish to think she knows anything about traveling in rough country. Tyrion and Brienne are going with her, along with the handful of soldiers he brought up from the south and an equal number of loyal northmen. Before Tyrion and Brienne came north, Bran's warging into ravens beyond the Wall gave them enough information to draw up a detailed map of those lands, especially in the areas where Jon and the free folk were last seen. Spring has come to the north. There will be spring snows, but they will not be the bitter, blinding snows of the long winters they have always known.

Sansa will find her brother, and bring him home.

 


	2. Kings and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North. I've come for my brother. Let him go and we'll leave you in peace."

When Peter and his forces return from his battle with the giants in the north, Susan is waiting for him in the bailey. He dismounts and crosses to her, pulling off his helmet. His armor is battered and he has a gash across one cheek, but he seems otherwise unharmed.

"Su," he says, kissing her cheek. "Is there word from Edmund and Lucy in Anvard?" 

"The siege is broken, and the Calormenes sent back across the desert," Susan says. 

Peter hands his helmet to his squire. "And Rabadash?"

"Aslan turned him into a donkey and sent him home," she answers, falling into step with Peter as they go inside and upstairs to his solar. Susan would have preferred a solution of more permanence for former suitor, but who is she to argue with Aslan's judgement? "If he travels further than ten miles from Tashbaan in the future, he'll be stuck as a donkey forever. The Tisroc has sent us a long and extravagant letter denying any involvement in the siege of Anvard, and hopes Narnia and Archenland will consider Calormen 'a treasured ally.' I haven't answered," she adds. "I thought that best left to you."

"Why did you go all that way only to deny his suit?" Peter asks. "Were you only playing at his affections? You seemed quite taken with him when he was here in Narnia."

"He showed a different face in his own home," Susan says. "Here, he was all charm and gallantry. There, he was cruel and heartless. He used lies and deception to paint a better picture of himself than he deserved." 

"It would have been better for Archenland and for our armies if you'd seen his true face sooner." 

Susan is rather stung by that, and says nothing in reply. Of course it would have been better for everyone if she had seen Rabadash's true face sooner, but she didn't. Neither did Peter or anyone else, she wants to point out, but he's shuffling through some papers on the desk in his solar and she cannot think of a response that doesn't sound like an excuse. 

"Orieus mentioned some prisoners," Peter continues, looking up from his desk. "What happened there?"

"Some men and women entered Narnia near the Lantern Waste," Susan says. It takes the subject away from her questionable judgement, but she's not sure it will be a better conversation. "They are not from this world, as far as I can make out. They killed some Narnians, thinking they were the regular sorts of animals, and the centaurs arrested them and brought them in. I've questioned them at length."

"And?"

"And they didn't know what they were doing, Peter." She hadn't made up her mind what to think about it until this moment, and when she hears her words they surprise her. "Let us pay a generous restitution to the families involved and send these people back to their own land. They were ignorant of the truth of things and meant no harm."

"The penalty for murder is death, Susan. You know that."

"Of course I know that. But executing them won't bring back the Narnians, and there are children among them. They're not invaders. It was an accident."

Peter sighs. "We'll have to wait for Edmund and Lucy to come to a judgement. But I'm not inclined to go easy. If we don't punish those who harm the ones we're meant to protect, how can they ever trust us to protect them again?" Peter's squire appears in the doorway, and Peter waves him in. "Pray excuse me, sister. The road was long and I am tired."

 

*****

Tyrion isn't a stranger to travel. He has been from one end of Westeros to the other and crossed the Narrow Sea to travel through half of Essos as well--then back again. But beyond the Wall is something else.

He has never been anywhere so quiet before. Bran had warned him that they would find no humans beyond the Wall, but somehow, part of Tyrion had thought perhaps that Bran was wrong about this.

He wasn't.

It's cold beyond the Wall, but not cold enough to keep the snow from slowly melting. It's thickest in the shady places. In the open spaces where the sun hits, the snow is receding, with new green grass growing in its place. None of that is bothersome. It's the silence that's bothersome.

It's a nice silence at first. Then it becomes oppressive. Tyrion feels compelled to fill the silence with talk as they ride. Ser Brienne rides at the head of the group, with a company of Lannister guards; Tyrion and Sansa ride in the center, with her Stark men behind them. 

"I hope your small council didn't give you too much grief over coming north," he says, drawing his horse even with Sansa's. 

"They did," Sansa says, "but I ignored them. Well, I ignored them after I explained myself. I can't just let Jon vanish into nothing. He's my _brother_."

"No. Of course you wouldn't. It's why I wrote you." Tyrion glances at her, tall and straight-backed atop her horse. She looks every inch a queen, even in plain traveling clothes, her hair in a simple braid. 

"When we get Jon back, I'm going to pardon him." Sansa keeps her eyes on the path ahead of them, glancing up to the raven that flies ahead of their formation. Bran promised he'd guide them through birds as best he could to the place where he'd seen Jon last. "Do you think Bran would pardon him as well?"

"Bran has mentioned it," Tyrion admits. "I don't know if it's politically feasible yet, but he's considered it." 

"I'm going to do it whether Bran does or not, and release Jon from his vows. The Wall is part of the north," she reminds him. "And I do not believe Jon should have been punished in the first place."

"No, he shouldn't have. But was the best of the only alternatives we had," Tyrion reminds her. 

"I know." Sansa looks down at the reins in her hands. "But I can do something about that, now. So I will."

"Do you think Jon will come back to Winterfell?"

"No. I don't." She smiles a little, but it's a sad smile and it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I think he'll stay out here with the free folk. He might even go straight back to the Night's Watch and take his vows a third time. But at least it would be his choice, then, and not something that was forced on him. I want him to have a choice."

*****

Lucy and Edmund return from Anvard not long after Peter returns from Ettinsmoor, and the most pressing order of business is to decide what to do about the people who call themselves the free folk. Lucy is distraught about the loss of the Narnians, and she sides with Peter in wanting justice done for them. 

"We are meant to protect them," Lucy says, "and if we do nothing to those who harm them, we're abandoning our duty to Narnia."

"I'm not saying we should do _nothing_ ," Susan says. "But there was no ill intent. We ought to take them back to the Lamp-Post and back to their own world, and forbid them to ever return."

Peter shakes his head. "The law is very clear on this matter, and it is our duty to uphold the law. The penalty for murder is death."

"Then the law is _wrong_ ," Susan says. "If a law is unjust, we have the responsibility to change it. We ought not just sit on our hands as if we are helpless. What in the world is the use of being a king or queen if you can't _do_ anything to right a wrong?"

"Your heart is too gentle, sister. You should harden it a bit, lest we have to go to war over your hand again."

" _Peter_." Lucy is aghast at his words. "That isn't kind. Either you knew what he was and you let Susan go south anyway with thoughts of marriage, in which case I would love you less, or you were as ignorant as the rest of us and have no business to chide her for it."

Peter has the grace to look ashamed at that, and there is an awkward silence that none of them are eager to be the first to break. Finally, Edmund says, "If our law and our duty are in conflict, then we ought to look to example for our guide. And what better example have we than Aslan? Do not forget that Aslan showed me the greatest mercy, when I did not deserve it. And my crime was intentionally done. There was no malice in what these people did. We must let them go back to their own lands."

"Oh, Edmund, you have the right of it," says Lucy. "I am ashamed I never considered it. We must follow the example Aslan has set for us."

Even Peter cannot argue with what Edmund has laid out. "So be it," he says. "We'll allow these free folk to go home and not return."

It is decided that they cannot simply allow the free folk to wander across Narnia in hopes they will find their way back, so an escort must be provided. Edmund goes to make the necessary arrangements for this. Susan goes to the dungeons to inform Jon Snow of the decision. 

The guard on duty opens his cell.

"Your Grace," Jon Snow says, getting to his feet. He may look like some barbarian, with his wild hair, ragged black furs, and his enormous wolf at his side, but Susan cannot fault his courtesies.

Susan turns to the guard and nods, and he closes the door behind her, leaving her alone with Jon Snow in the cell. "May I ask you a question, my lord?" He's given her no title with his name, so she has no idea if he is a lord or not, but calling him Jon feels too familiar for someone who is, for the moment, her prisoner, and she wishes to be courteous. 

And she's curious. 

He nods. "Of course, Your Grace."

"Westeros has a monarch, yes? A king or a queen? Or something like it?"

He hesitates before answering. "Yes," he says, "but not four as you have. Just one."

"If this happened in your Westeros," she says, "what would happen? How would your people handle something like this?" 

"The penalty for murder is death," he says. "Or exile, or taking the black. But death would be the typical sentence." He appears to think on that for a long moment, then goes on. "Your Grace, I know you want justice for your people, as I want justice for the free folk. If someone needs to die for this, let it be me. Take my life, and let the free folk go back to Westeros. They never meant any harm to your people, they just want to be left to live in peace. It's my fault they came here. Not theirs." 

Susan looks at him for a long moment. It surprises her that a man would be willing to give up his life to save his friends. She has seen this before, of course, with Aslan, who willingly laid down his life in a gruesome way, for Edmund and for all of them, but… that was Aslan. He isn't a man. Jon Snow _is_. 

"You would do that?" she asks. "Give up your own life so that your people could go free?"

"Aye. I would."

Would she be so selfless, if she were in his situation? She likes to think she would be, but she is not sure if she would be brave enough. It is one thing to say the words, and another entirely to submit to the sword. She can see in Jon Snow's face that for a certainty, he would do both.

"That's very honorable of you, my lord," she says softly. "But unnecessary. No one is dying today. We've decided to escort you back to the Lamp-Post so that you may all return to Westeros. We leave at dawn."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

She cannot tell if Jon Snow looks relieved or disappointed.

*****

"I cannot make sense of this map." Sansa smooths the map against a tree stump, placing rocks at the corners to weigh it down. Brienne prefers to keep a map oriented north when reading it, but Sansa needs to turn it to match the way they're going or she has difficulty picturing right and left. "This is where Bran said he'd seen Jon last?"

"Yes. In the Haunted Forest." Brienne points to a spot halfway between the western mountains and the eastern coastline. "Another day of riding, a day and a half, perhaps, should get us there."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. All His Grace could see was snow." 

There is very little snow, now, and Sansa isn't sure what that means. She has always been unsure exactly what Bran's powers mean or what they allow him to do. Until this journey she has not seen him warg into an animal. He's been guiding them along the way, though; each morning a bird joins them on their course, usually a raven, though yesterday it was a small brown sparrow. It's strange to Sansa to know that it's Bran leading them, but also not-Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven, whoever or whatever that is. 

"We should make camp for the night," Brienne suggests.

"We've at least another good hour of light left before we truly need to stop," says Sansa. "Shouldn't we make use of it?"

"We could," Brienne allows, "but we've pushed far the last three nights. If we're coming to our goal, we might ought to rest now in case we can't later." Sansa can see the sense in that, and it's agreed that they will stop and make camp for the night. 

Their group has developed an efficient routine during their weeks of travel. Everyone tends his or her own horse, though Brienne does for Tyrion's horse what he cannot reach. The northmen and Tyrion's soldiers take it in turns to hunt each day to supplement the rations they've brought, and it usually falls to Sansa and Tyrion to collect firewood. Her early attempts at starting fires had been laughable, but Brienne was a patient teacher and now Sansa can get a fire going on the third or fourth attempt...most of the time. 

As has become their habit, Sansa and Tyrion go to collect some firewood. They're heading back to camp with their arms full when Tyrion stops suddenly. "Sansa, stop," he says softly. "Don't move."

Sansa freezes, her fingers tightening on the firewood in her arms and a prickle of fear creeping up her spine. "What is it?"

"Don't move," he says again. "There's a snake, just there. You've almost stepped on it." 

With her arms full of firewood, she can't see what's just in front of her, but she has no reason to doubt Tyrion. "Well, if I can't move, what should I do?" Surely she could outrun a snake, if she dropped the wood and ran. How long would a snake chase her before giving up? Then she hears a soft hiss and her blood runs cold. 

"Don't move," he says again. Sansa doesn't dare turn her head, but out of the corner of her eye she can see Tyrion moving very slowly, presumably reaching for his dagger. 

"Tyrion, I can't see it," she whispers. The breeze stirs her skirt a little and it's all Sansa can do not to scream before she realizes it's the wind and not the snake slithering up her dress. "What is it doing?"

"Just looking at you."

"That doesn't help."

"It's all right. Just be still."

There's a long, terrible moment where neither she nor Tyrion move and there's no sound but the soft hiss of the snake, then suddenly Tyrion drops his firewood and lunges; it startles Sansa so that she shouts and drops her firewood as she jumps out of the way. When she has her wits about her again, Tyrion is half-buried in a pile of wood and cradling his left hand against his chest. 

"Oh, gods, Tyrion, I'm sorry." Sansa crouches on the grass beside him, pushing the dropped firewood off him. "Did it bite you?"

"Just a scratch," Tyrion admits. "I think I got him."

Tyrion did indeed get the snake, Sansa discovers after she pushes the rest of the wood away. She retrieves Tyrion's dagger and wipes the blood off the blade on the grass. "Is it poisonous?"

"Venomous."

"What?"

"If you bite it, and you get sick, it's poisonous," Tyrion explains. "If it bites you, and you get sick, it's venomous."

"Is it venomous, then?"

"I don't know. I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

Sansa offers her hand to help him stand, and after a moment, he takes it and lets her help him to his feet. He looks a bit grey in the face and he keeps his bitten hand close to his chest. "Let me bandage it, at least," she says. At first he brushes her off, then relents.

"What's happened?" asks Brienne, back at camp. "I thought I heard a shout just now."

"Tyrion killed a snake as we were getting firewood," Sansa explains. "He kept me from stepping on it and getting bitten. But it bit him, first."

"What sort of snake?"

"The kind with fangs," Tyrion says, his voice tight with pain. 

"Was it poisonous?"

"Venomous."

"What?"

"Don't encourage him," Sansa says irritably, digging in one of the packs for some bandages. "Unless you want a lecture." There's only a little bit of blood on Tyrion's hand, oozing from two neat punctures in the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Sansa washes it away with some water from a skin, pats the wound dry, and winds a clean bandage around his hand. She doubts it will have much benefit, but she feels she ought to do _something_.

Two of Sansa's men go off to collect the firewood Sansa and Tyrion left behind, and return with the wood and the body of the snake. "Aye, it's a nasty bugger," one says, turning over the snake's headless corpse to show the zigzag pattern down its back. "A striking snake, m'lord. It won't kill you, I reckon, but you're in for a rough time. My uncle got bit by one once and he could hardly walk for a moon or more."

"Do you want to go back to Castle Black?" Sansa asks. "The maester there might be able to help."

"No," Tyrion says. "We've come too far to turn back now. We'll press on in the morning." 

Tyrion is quiet through supper, eating little, and takes to his bedroll before full dark. Aberdall, the northman who identified the snake, keeps glancing at Tyrion with a frown, and before Sansa retires for the evening, he comes to speak with her.

"Your Grace," he says, "I think someone should keep a close watch on Lord Tyrion, if you don't mind my saying. Those striking snakes can be nasty. Never known one to kill a man, but I did hear of one killing a child once. And Lord Tyrion…well with him being small and all..." 

"I see. I appreciate your concern, Aberdall. Thank you." The old soldier looks uncomfortable, but he bows and returns to the other men sitting by the fire.

Sansa sleeps lightly that night, waking after only a few hours to see Tyrion sitting up on his bedroll, a few feet away from her. She gathers a blanket around her shoulders and moves to sit beside him. "How is your hand?"

Tyrion shifts his arm from beneath the blanket around his shoulders and shows her his hand. Even in the low light from the fire, she can see that his hand is red and swollen, with deep red lines extending from the punctures almost to his elbow.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes." He reaches for the blanket to settle it around his shoulders again, but he can't move his arm very well and the blanket falls away. Sansa pulls it back into place.

"You should go back to Castle Black, Tyrion," she says gently. "This is dangerous. You need to see a maester." 

"If this is bad enough to kill me, it would kill me long before I got back to any maester," Tyrion says. "And if it is not bad enough kill me, there is no need to turn back."

Sansa can see the sense in this. She doesn't like it at all, but she can see the sense in it. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't think so."

Sansa thinks on that for a moment, then gets up to retrieve a skin of wine from their provisions. Sitting beside him again, she uncorks the skin and passes it to him.

"Well," he says, accepting it. "I suppose there is this one thing." He drinks deeply, then offers it to her. 

"Oh, no thank you," she says. "I don't want any. I don't really care for the taste of wine."

"No one cares for the taste of it," Tyrion says. "The taste isn't the point."

Sansa only takes a little sip before passing it back to him. "No, I suppose the taste isn't the point. The effect is the point." And he's quite a bit more in need of the effect than she is.

"The effect, and those with whom you share the drink."

"Yes." 

They share the skin back and forth a few times, though Sansa isn't truly drinking. Her small sips are only for the appearance that Tyrion is not drinking alone. It's Tyrion who needs it, not her, though as neither can sleep, she's content to pass the time with him. Even after all this time it's strange for Sansa to think that they used to be married. They hadn't shared a bed but they had shared their living space, and there's a kind of intimacy in that, too, as there is in this moment, when everyone else is asleep except her, Tyrion, and the men on watch. Sansa feels very little of this sort of thing anymore. With Arya gone west, Jon beyond the Wall, and what is left of Bran in the south, Winterfell feels very empty even though it's almost always full. 

What is a wolf without a pack?

"Tyrion?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

Tyrion drinks from the skin again. "What do you mean? Are we doing the right thing looking for Jon? Yes."

That is not exactly what Sansa meant, although the thought has crossed her mind that perhaps it was not strictly necessary for her to come along. She has no skills to contribute that the group that anyone else cannot already do more capably, and is likely a liability if something goes wrong, as evidenced by the incident with the snake. Yet she could no more sit in Winterfell and wait to hear of Jon's fate than she could have sat in Winterfell and waited for someone else to free him from King's Landing. 

"No," she says. "I meant…" She sighs. "Are we doing the right thing for our people?"

"I don't know." He seems surprised that he's admitting he doesn't know. "I would like to think that we are. Are people better off now than they would have been with Daenerys? I believe so. Is it the best we can do? I'm not sure." 

"I want to do the best I can," Sansa says. "I want… I want the North to be secure. And it is, or it will be, if we keep moving forward. But it doesn't feel like enough. I don't mean… not like that," she says, seeing the look Tyrion gives her at that. "I don't mean that the North is not enough, like it's not enough land or people. I don't mean that. But as you said, is it the best we can do? I'm not sure either. Sometimes I wonder what it was all for."

Tyrion puts down the wine skin and reaches out his uninjured hand to cover hers. "I still wonder," he says. "I don't know if I'll ever be sure."

In the morning, Tyrion is visibly unwell. He cannot put on a glove, and his arm is swollen such that his sleeve is uncomfortably tight. He asks Sansa to slit the fabric to the shoulder to relieve the pressure, and when she does, she finds his skin is hot to the touch.

"I don't like the look of this," she says. "Tyrion, you have to let some of the men take you back to Castle Black." Perhaps he won't die from this, but she thinks there is a good chance he might lose his hand or even his whole arm. If he has a maester look to it, it might be avoided. To do nothing is foolish.

Tyrion ignores her and allows one of his guards to help him mount his horse. He nods up to the sky above them, where a glossy black raven circles low over their heads. Bran has joined them again. "Let's go."

Sansa thinks if she were his queen, she'd order him to return to Castle Black and have their maester see to him. If she were still his wife, she might beg him to go back. But she isn't either of those things, and a part of her thinks Tyrion would ignore her in this even if she was. 

Tyrion is so quiet during this day's travels that Sansa finds herself riding close to him to check that he hasn't fallen asleep or unconscious in the saddle. He hasn't, but his face is set in hard lines and there is a gleam of sweat on his brow despite the mildness of the day. Sansa resists the urge to yet again suggest he turn back to Castle Black; he's a man grown, not a child, and if he thinks he can bear it she must trust his judgement.

It has become habit in their travels for whatever bird Bran controls to fly away near the end of the day when they make camp, only for another to rejoin them in the morning. Sansa thinks it about time for them to stop for the evening and is just about to suggest they do so when there is a piercing squawk from the raven just ahead of them and it begins to fly in agitated circles, as if trying to encourage them not to stop, to press forward without delay. 

Tyrion appears not to notice, so Sansa nudges her horse into a trot and presses forward, catching up with Brienne near the front of their formation. "We must keep going," she says. "I think Bran is trying to tell us something."

That something is evident within moments, when they come across a strange metal lantern on a post. They've seen no one save themselves since they left Castle Black, yet this lantern burns as brightly as if freshly lit, casting a warm glow in a wide circle all round it. 

"Tyrion," Sansa says, circling back to draw her horse up beside his. "Did Bran mention anything about this light?"

Tyrion's eyes are red and feverish, but he looks at the glow of the lantern and seems almost mesmerized. "No," he says. "Nothing like this." 

The raven flies above their group, swooping toward the lantern and then arcing quickly away when it reaches the edge of the border of light--just up to it, but without crossing it, as if he's being repelled by an unseen force. As surely as a fence keeps sheep or cows in a paddock, this light is keeping the raven--and Bran--away from something.

"Bran must not be able to see what's past this light," Sansa says, "because he can't go past it." It's one of the more ridiculous notions she's ever had, and yet it's no more ridiculous than the bones of her ancestors bursting from their crypts to attack them, is it? "If he can't see what's beyond, and he can't see Jon or the free folk anymore, then that must be where they went."

"What do you want to do?" Brienne asks. "I can't say I like the look of this lantern, but if you want to go forward, we'll go."

"We came here to find out what happened to Jon Snow," Tyrion says. "If we turn back now, we'll never know. I say we go forward."

"I agree," Sansa says. "Let's find my brother."

*****

When Queen Susan told Jon that they would escort him and the free folk back to the Lamp-Post, he thought "we" meant her army, not the queen herself and her younger brother, the King Edmund, along with a contingent of centaurs. Jon finds it strange that there are two kings and two queens and all of them brother and sister, yet not wed to each other like the old Targaryen kings and queens; he cannot see any logic in it. He doesn't think on that overlong, though, because they'll be out of this strange country soon and back beyond the Wall. 

The majority of their party is again on foot. Jon and Tormund's horses have been returned to them, along with their weapons. The king and queen are mounted as well, though Jon learns that while there are both Talking Horses and the usual sort, it is the latter they ride today as the former only allow themselves to be ridden to battle and on grand occasions. He wonders what it is like to ride a horse that can think and reason for itself. Perhaps it is little different than riding a dragon. For the short time he had ridden Rhaegal, it was as if the dragon knew where he wanted to go, needing no reins or commands to guide him as a horse might. 

He does not like to think on how things might have been different if Rhaegal had lived.

After a full day's ride out of Cair Paravel, they stop to make camp, and Ghost darts away in a flash of white fur before Jon can stop him. He's not worried Ghost will eat something (someone?) he shouldn't, as Ghost clearly knew the difference between Talking Beasts and the usual sort long before Jon did. But Ghost being away from him in this strange land makes him uneasy in a way that it doesn't beyond the Wall, especially when Queen Susan questioned him so intently about wolves. So after he sees to his horse, he goes off in search of him. 

A moment later he hears a shout and a splash, and just at the bottom of a small hill he finds Ghost standing on the bank of a stream and the queen head over heels in the middle of it. It's not deep at all, hardly a trickle, but that's not the point. "Your Grace!" he says, half-sliding down the hill to reach her. "Take my hand," he says, and when she does he pulls her up out of the stream and onto her feet. "Are you all right?" 

"Yes, I think so," she says, and straightens her skirts. The whole side of her dress is wet, turning the green fabric almost black. Her long, thick braid is wet too, and she laughs as she wrings some water from it. "A little wet, but I'll dry. There's no harm done."

Ghost eyes them, wagging his tail lazily. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing," she says. "It's only that I wasn't expecting to see him there, and he startled me. I didn't hear him at all. One moment I was alone and the next he was there."

"Ghost, to me," Jon says. Ghost looks at him for a moment, then slowly trots over to him, his long pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, and sits at Jon's side. "I'm sorry for that, Your Grace." She looks at Ghost warily, and Jon adds, "He won't hurt you. You don't have to be scared of him."

"I'm not. Not really," she adds, her eyes still on Ghost. "Well… perhaps a little. The Wolves of the White Witch, Jadis, attacked my sister and me. Almost fifteen years ago, now, but I remember how much they frightened me just as if it was yesterday. I haven't really seen one since."

That explains why she asked him so many questions about Ghost and his sword, Jon thinks. "Ghost won't hurt you. Hold out your hand, let him smell you." 

The queen hesitates a moment, then kneels down in front of Ghost, holding out her hand for him to smell. Ghost sniffs at her knuckles, huffs a bit, then pushes his face into her hand as if insisting she pet him. When she does, she laughs softly. "He's so soft," she says, stroking his fur. Her fingers skim lightly over the place where his ear was torn away and then healed. "You must be quite a brave fellow, to be injured like that." 

"He is," Jon says, feeling a kind of pride in his wolf at her words. "He's fought… all kinds of things." Wights, and worse, though that would take more explaining than Jon wants to do just now, being so close to leaving. "My brothers and sisters, we all had wolves, a whole litter of them, since they were pups. Ghost is the only one left." Jon thinks it a cruel irony that he, the only one who isn't truly a Stark, is the only one who still has his wolf. 

"He's a fine fellow." She gives him a final scratch and gets to her feet. "I'm glad I've met him properly."

"Su? Are you all right?" Jon turns to see King Edmund at the top of the hill. "I thought I heard a shout."

"It's all right," she replies. "I was clumsy and fell in the stream. Jon Snow helped me up. Thank you, my lord," she says to Jon. "I should change out of this wet dress." She trudges up the hill, kisses her brother's cheek, and disappears into the camp.

"I wanted to apologize, my lord," Edmund says, when Jon climbs the hill. "For detaining you and your people for so long."

"I'm no lord, Your Grace," Jon says. "And there's no need for an apology. It is the expected thing, to detain those charged of a crime." At least, it would be the expected thing for any ruler who took the time to consider his or her actions before proceeding. 

"Nevertheless, I'm sorry for it, especially for the children's sake. Susan couldn't make such a decision on her own. She had to wait for all of us to return."

"She seems a capable enough ruler to make decisions on her own," Jon says.

Edmund shakes his head. "No, I don't mean to say that she isn't capable of making decisions like this on her own. I'm sure she could, if needful. I meant that we don't make decisions of great importance such as that if there's only one of us. We decide it together."

"Nothing wrong with that," Jon says. If there are four rulers, should they not all share their opinions? What would be the point of such an arrangement otherwise? Better to have four and decide slowly than to have one that decides rashly, Jon thinks. "It seems wise to me."

"She argued your case rather strongly," the king continues.

"Her Grace was very kind." 

"My sister has a gentle heart, and she tries to see the good in people."

"It's a good quality for a person to have." He thinks the king might have a point somewhere, but with Jon's thoughts firmly fixed on returning beyond the Wall, it is difficult for him to see it. "I'm glad that we were able to come to a satisfactory agreement. My people are eager to return home." 

"I'm sure they are," says Edmund. "And we are happy to assist you in getting there." He glances in the direction his sister had just gone before looking at Jon again. "Do you have sisters, my lord?"

"I do, Your Grace," Jon answers. "Two sisters, both younger than me." There is nothing he wouldn't do for Sansa or Arya. He would kill for them, if necessary, to protect them--and he has. 

"Then as one brother to another, I think you understand me when I speak of my sister's good nature," Edmund says. "I should not like to see her hurt."

So, there's the point of it at last. Jon would laugh at how foolish it is except that Edmund seems quite serious. "I am a man of the Night's Watch, Your Grace," he says. "We are sworn to hold no lands, take no wives, and father no children. Even if I were not about to leave your lands for good in a few days, your sister's heart would be in no danger from me." 

Jon is saddling his horse on the last morning they break camp when the queen walks up to him, leading her own horse by the reins. "Good morning, my lord."

"Good morning, Your Grace." 

"I expect we'll have you at the Lamp-Post by midday," she says. "So I wanted to wish you well."

"Thank you, Your Grace." He checks the saddle a final time and turns to her. "Thank you again for the escort."

"It's nothing," she says. "It was a pleasant ride. One would think that as small a country as Narnia is, we would be able to travel it at will, but it doesn't happen as much as one might think."

"I've enjoyed seeing your country." Despite everything, this is true enough. Jon prefers the quiet and cold of the lands beyond the Wall, but Narnia is beautiful, and the Narnians seem happy enough, from what little he can see. 

"I only wish it was under better circumstances."

"And I as well."

"I suppose this is good-bye, then, my lord."

"Aye. I wish you good fortune, Your Grace."

A small group of centaurs gallop past, followed a moment later by Edmund, who circles back to them and draws his horse up alongside the queen's. "My lord, you'd better come with me," he says, "and you, too, sister. Our scouts have brought some news."

Jon swings up onto his horse and follows, the queen just behind him. More groups of centaurs gallop past, swords in hand, their pounding hooves kicking up the turf. "Keep the free folk here," Jon tells Tormund; whatever it is, he doesn't want them getting involved in anything else. When he rounds the edge of the wood, he sees the very last thing he ever expected to see.

It's Sansa, Lord Tyrion, and Ser Brienne, at the head of a company of Stark and Lannister cavalry. The centaurs have caught up to them, weapons drawn. 

"More of your people, my lord?" the king asks him. He does not seem pleased with their presence, and his hand rests on the hilt of his sword, though he does not draw it.

"My sister, Your Grace." He sees the looks of bewilderment on the faces of the soldiers and he knows that in half a moment, it can turn from bewilderment to aggression, and then no one will be leaving Narnia, alive or dead. It is the last thing Jon wants. "I don't know why she's here. She ought to be miles away. Let me speak to her."

Sansa nudges her horse forward before Edmund can reply. "I'm Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North. I've come for my brother. Let him go and we'll leave you in peace."


	3. Lions and Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aslan is the reason we rule," says the queen. "He's the one who brought us here long ago, and we only rule by his grace and that of his Father, the Emperor-over-the-Sea. He charged us with the care and protection of this land and those who live here."
> 
> "Some kind of god?" Tormund asks.
> 
> "Well, he's not a _man_ ," says the Narnian king, as if everyone ought to know who Aslan is. "He's the one true King of Narnia, over me, my sisters, and my brother the High King."

"I'm Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North. I've come for my brother. Let him go and we'll leave you in peace." It occurs to her then that Jon does not exactly look like a prisoner, given he's armed and mounted, with Ghost trotting along beside him, but Sansa had been distracted by the presence of the centaurs, something she thought only existed in the heraldry of some house in the Reach, and not in real life. Still, none of this makes any sense at all, and she's wary.

The young dark haired man riding near Jon inclines his head a bit. "Greetings, Your Majesty," he says amiably. "I'm Edmund, King of Narnia. I'm happy to say we were just on our way to return your brother to you, along with the free folk. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to ask your men to put away their weapons?"

Jon seems unharmed, but she doesn't see the free folk, even if this King Edmund has mentioned them. "Ask your men to put away theirs."

King Edmund doesn't reply, nor does he ask his men (men?) to lower their weapons. 

Tyrion speaks then, and his voice is quiet. Sansa isn't sure it's because he feels so poorly or because he simply wants only Sansa to hear him, or both. "He has the advantage," he says. "He has the advantage in numbers, we don't know if he has more men where we can't see them, and we don't know this terrain. We didn't know this terrain even _existed_. Perhaps we should cooperate."

Sansa looks at Brienne, who nods slightly in agreement with Tyrion. "All right," she says, and Brienne signals to their men to put away their swords. "Where are the free folk?"

Jon gestures back toward the woods from where they came. "Just around the bend," he says. "I asked them to wait there." 

King Edmund turns to the centaur closest to him, and though Sansa can't hear what he's saying, a few moments later the centaur gallops off in that direction, a handful of others joining him as he goes. "They'll be joining us shortly," he says. "In the meantime, Your Majesty, I'd like to talk to you about how to proceed."

Sansa looks at Tyrion and Brienne again, and the three of them ride a bit closer to Jon, King Edmund, and the dark-haired woman who hasn't spoken, so that they can speak with each other without shouting across the clearing. "My sister," Jon says to the king and the other woman, "Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King to my brother, Bran Stark, who is King of the Six Kingdoms. Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of my brother's Kingsguard."

King Edmund nods again, then gestures to the dark-haired woman. "My sister, Queen Susan of Narnia."

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," the queen says. 

Sansa gives them all a careful look. She doesn't know why Jon is with them, or why he has been here so long, or why he has said so little, but the last time Jon rode away and came back with a foreign queen had been a disaster. Now he's riding between a king and queen she's never heard of. She is not eager to repeat the experience. Thankfully, this king and queen seem to have no dragons, but the centaurs are enough to make her wary.

"Sansa, what are you doing here?" Jon asks.

"We came to find you," she says. "Bran has been watching out for you ever since you left King's Landing. He wanted to be sure you were all right. When he couldn't see you or the free folk anymore, Tyrion came to Winterfell to tell me, and we came to find you."

"We got… not lost, exactly," Jon says, "but this is… not beyond the Wall anymore. It's another sort of world, I suppose. It's not on any of our maps."

"That's ridiculous," Sansa says. Of course she noticed that the air was sweeter and the sky brighter and the water colder after they passed the lantern light, and Bran couldn't pass through it at all no matter what bird he warged into and he definitely can't see past the light, but it's all patently ridiculous. There simply _cannot_ be another world or land or whatever it is up beyond the Wall, not on any map. Someone would have discovered it long ago.

"It sounds mad," says Jon, "but here we are. I would have come back sooner, but there was a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding."

"It's a long story and I won't waste time telling it now. King Edmund and Queen Susan and their men were escorting us back across their country so we could find our way home. And now we're here."

"As soon as the free folk arrive, you may all go," says King Edmund. 

Sansa is not satisfied with this explanation, but there will be time enough to get the rest of the story from Jon later. "All right." There is little to do but wait, then.

Fortunately, it is not a long wait. A little while later, the rank of centaurs behind the king and queen splits down the center, and the free folk walk through them, with Tormund alongside them on horseback. "What's your sister doing here, little crow?" Tormund says, when he sees her.

"Looking for us," Jon answers. "And now we're going home." 

They're just preparing to turn and go back the way they came when Tyrion starts to sway in his saddle; Sansa only realizes it too late to stop him falling from his horse. She scrambles down from her horse, though Jon is faster, not being burdened with skirts. 

"What's wrong with him?" Jon asks, kneeling beside Tyrion.

"He got bitten by a snake before we passed that lantern in the forest," Sansa says. Tyrion's face is an ashen grey and his breathing is shallow. She gently touches his arm, moving his cut sleeve aside, and winces when she sees his arm is mottled and dark with bruising up to the shoulder. "I told him to go back to Castle Black and see the maester there, but he refused."

"It'll take us at least a fortnight to get back to Castle Black," Jon says. "And I don't know what they can do for him." He nods at Tyrion's arm. "That isn't--"

"I know." She cuts Jon off before he can say it. 

"Might we be of help?" Susan asks. Sansa doesn't see what help they could be, but she nods, and the king and queen join them at Tyrion's side. 

"I don't suppose you happen to have a skilled maester hiding in some nearby bushes?" Sansa's voice is more curt than she means it to be--if not for Tyrion, it would be _her_ in this state instead of him, and she knows it. And she's worried for him.

"I don't know what a maester is," Susan replies. "So I'm afraid we don't have one. What happened?"

"A snakebite, two days ago," Sansa answers. 

Susan looks at Tyrion, then at her brother. "Lucy's cordial can save him," she says. "I know Peter has said we're only to use it in the most dire of circumstances, but…"

"It seems dire enough to me," Edmund says. Turning to Sansa, he says, "Your Majesty, we have something that will save him, if you'll trust us to wait here for a little while longer. I can send a messenger who will return in a matter of hours. Will you permit it?"

Sansa has never heard of anything that can heal wounds such as this. She looks at Jon, meeting his eyes, and he nods. Jon seems to trust these people. It seems Sansa has little choice but to do so as well when the alternative for Tyrion is a slow, painful ride back to Castle Black and perhaps death before getting very far. "All right. Do whatever you can to help him."

"I'll send a messenger," Edmund says, and goes back to his men at the other side of the clearing.

"Let's get him into the shade," Jon says, and carefully picks Tyrion up, carrying him to a thick clump of trees at the edge of the clearing. Sansa knows Tyrion would hate being carried in such a way, but as he's not conscious just now, there isn't much choice about it. 

"Wait," she says, before Jon can put him down. Sansa unfastens her cloak, folds it in half for thickness, and spreads it on the ground next to the trees. "It might be a little more comfortable."

Jon settles Tyrion carefully on Sansa's folded cloak. Then there is little to do but wait. 

As they wait, Jon explains what has happened since he passed the lantern light.

 

*****

The first thing Tyrion notices when he wakes is that the searing pain in his hand and arm are completely gone. The punctures in his hand have healed, leaving nothing but the tiniest faint marks, no bigger than flea bites, and when he flexes his fingers there is no pain. And his fever is gone. He is tired, but clear-headed.

"Thank the gods," he says, pushing himself to sit up. He's sitting on a folded cloak--Sansa's, he realizes--under the shade of a large tree, but there is no one in sight. Not Sansa, not Brienne, not Jon Snow or his wolf, nor anyone else. Tyrion gets to his feet and looks around. There is no trace of another soul. "Hello?" he calls out. "Is anyone there?"

It is quiet for what seems like an eternity. Then he hears a Voice say, "Tyrion Lannister."

The Voice is more terrible than his father's, yet sweeter than Jaime's would be if somehow he could hear it again. Tyrion reaches for his dagger, but it is missing. "Who are you?"

He hears a soft rustle behind him, and turns around to see an enormous golden Lion. Tyrion has only ever seen a caged lion once before, at Casterly Rock, when he was very young. This Lion is nothing like those lions that were his grandfather's folly. When Tyrion sees this Lion, he cannot imagine a cage that would be large enough or strong enough to contain it, and he feels the strangest urge to kneel.

He doesn't, though.

"Tyrion Lannister," says the Voice again, and he realizes it's the voice of the Lion. 

"How do you know my name?"

"I know all of you," says the Lion. "And so does my Father, the Emperor-over-the-Sea. And you know me, too, though in your world I have a different name."

"I don't even know what your name is _here_."

"I am Aslan."

Tyrion does not know what that means. "What do you want?"

"You must tell Jon Snow to travel to the Wild Lands of the North," says the Lion. "Many years ago, there were free folk from your world who were fleeing the great evil from your Lands of Always Winter, but they got lost and came here by accident, when they found a place where the magic between our worlds is thin. It is time for them to be reunited with their kin."

"Why don't you tell Jon this yourself?" Tyrion doesn't think he's going to be able to convince anyone that a giant talking Lion told him to give Jon Snow a message about saving people yet again. "I don't think he's going to believe me."

The Lion laughs, but it isn't an unkind laugh. "Jon Snow is not ready to see me yet," he says, "for reasons that I will not tell you, as I will tell you no one's story but your own. He will see me in his own time."

The last time Tyrion asked Jon to do something, it nearly broke Jon into a thousand thousand pieces. He doesn't think Jon wants to do anything else Tyrion asks, ever again, and Tyrion would not blame him for it. "Your message might be better received if it came from Sansa," he says, then hastily adds, "meaning no disrespect… Your Grace." The Lion hasn't asked him to give him any sort of title, only his name, but he feels as though he's talking to a King.

"Sansa Stark is also not yet ready to see me," says Aslan. "Words are your greatest gift, Tyrion. You must put them to use. The Narnians will believe you. They know me well." The Lion walks closer to him then, so close that Tyrion can feel his breath on his face. He is not sure what he expected a Lion's breath to smell like, but it smells faintly sweet, though not the sickening sweet of incense in the sept. It smells like what Tyrion thinks _forgiveness_ might smell like if it had a scent at all. "You have traveled many dark paths in your life," he rumbles, "and you will be tempted with many more. Take care which paths you choose."

This time, when Tyrion wakes, he opens his eyes to find his head is in Sansa's lap, and both she and the foreign queen are peering down at him anxiously. "Aslan," is the first thing out of his mouth, then he realizes his mouth is as dry as ashes and he can hardly speak.

"Get him some water," he hears someone say, and someone else presses a water-skin to his lips. Tyrion coughs, sputtering more water than he drinks, then sits up. 

"Give him some air," says Jon Snow, and everyone gathered around backs up a little except for Sansa, still sitting on the ground beside him. 

"I saw Aslan," Tyrion says, and he hears two things in response at once: _Who is Aslan?_ from Sansa and Brienne and Jon, and _What did he say?_ from the Narnian king and queen. 

"Aslan is…" Tyrion begins, and immediately gives up. "One of you explain it, Your Graces," he says instead, looking at the Narnian king and queen.

"Aslan is the reason we rule," says the queen. "He's the one who brought us here long ago, and we only rule by his grace and that of his Father, the Emperor-over-the-Sea. He charged us with the care and protection of this land and those who live here."

"Some kind of god?" Tormund asks.

"Well, he's not a _man_ ," says the Narnian king, as if everyone ought to know who Aslan is. "He's the one true King of Narnia, over me, my sisters, and my brother the High King."

"Too many kings for such a small country," Tormund scoffs. "And this king who isn't a man came to you while you were sick from the bite of a snake? Sounds like something I might see when I've had too much to drink."

Tyrion looks down at his arm and hand, which look and feel just as healed as they did in his dream. He flexes his fingers, which he could barely bend this morning. "How did this happen?"

The Narnian queen shows him a tiny crystal bottle, about half-full of a dark red liquid. "It is one of the treasures of Narnia," she says. "One drop will cure any injury. It was feared that you might die, my lord. How do you feel?"

"Much better. Thank you, Your Grace." He hardly remembers what happened before he blacked out; he remembers telling Sansa that the Narnians had the advantage, and then he felt hot and dizzy and he pitched headfirst from the saddle. And then there was Aslan.

"What did this Aslan want?" Sansa asks. 

Tyrion looks up at Jon, knowing Jon will not want to hear what he has to say. "Aslan said that there are some free folk living in the lands north of Narnia. He called it the Wild Lands of the North. They're free folk who came here by accident when they were fleeing from the Night King, and it happened when 'they found a place where the magic between our worlds was thin.' That was the exact phrase he used. He said it's my job to convince you--he named you, Jon, specifically--to go and find these free folk so they can rejoin their kin. I suppose he thought it safe to let them go home, now, since the Night King is defeated and the Long Night is over." 

"If there are more free folk, we have to find them," Tormund says immediately. "We came to this land by accident. There's no reason to think that other free folk haven't done the same. We need to find them and bring them back to the north, the _real_ north, where they belong."

"So you believe that someone appeared to Tyrion in a dream and told him to find people you didn't even know where missing?" Sansa is incredulous. "Tyrion, I'm sorry, I really am. But you've been feverish and in a great deal of pain for days, and I'm not sure you're not just imagining all of this."

"Aslan is real, Your Majesty," says the Narnian queen to Sansa. "As real as you or I. I don't doubt that he showed himself to Lord Tyrion and not the rest of us. He comes and goes and shows himself as he pleases. I've heard no word about there being free folk in the Wild Lands of the North, but we know so little about it that isn't out of the realm of possibility."

"Then why didn't he show himself to Jon, if he wanted Jon, specifically, to go?" Sansa asks. "Why did he show himself to Tyrion instead?"

Tyrion hesitates, knowing Sansa will not care for the answer she will get. "He said… that you and Jon were not ready to see him yet."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know," Tyrion admits. 

"I don't like it," Sansa says. "I don't like any of this." 

Tyrion isn't surprised by Sansa's reaction. Her whole point in coming here was to find Jon and bring him home; now she is being told that Jon is needed for some other purpose. And he honestly can't find any fault in her for it, even if he doesn't agree. "Your Graces," he says to the Narnian king and queen. "Could we have a moment to discuss this privately?"

"Of course," says the king, and he and his sister walk a a discreet distance away from them, leaving Tyrion, Sansa, Jon, Tormund, and Brienne to talk amongst themselves.

"I don't like it." Sansa gets to her feet and dusts off her skirts. "I came here to bring you _home_ , Jon. Not to just...wander about in a magic land looking for people because someone said so in a dream."

"My home is the Night's Watch now," Jon reminds her.

"And it shouldn't be," Sansa replies, her voice quivering a little with emotion. "I'm the Queen in the North, now, and the Wall is in the North. Not the Six Kingdoms. And if I want to pardon you, I can and I will. You should never have been sent there in the first place. I want you to come home, Jon. To Winterfell."

"I can't, Sansa," Jon says. "I said the words. I swore the vow."

"And I can release you from that vow."

"Sansa--"

"Might I suggest," Tyrion interrupts carefully, "that we put aside the issue of Jon's position in the Night's Watch for the moment, and concentrate on the matter of the free folk?" Sansa sighs, clearly frustrated, but she doesn't say no, so Tyrion continues. 

"I think… that this Aslan is real, and that there are free folk in this world that need to come back to beyond the Wall. I think that whatever magic exists here is the reason Bran couldn't see what happened to Jon and the free folk, and why he couldn't come past the lantern in the woods when he was warged into a bird." He looks at each of them, all with some degree of confusion on their faces except for Jon, who simply looks weary. "I know it sounds absurd. It sounds absurd to me, too, and I'm the one who saw him. But think of all the absurd and impossible things we have seen in these last years. I did not think I would ever see dragons in my lifetime, yet we did. I did not think I would ever see dead men's bones rise from their crypts and try to kill us, yet we did. And I did not think that I could ever walk from one world into another, yet here we are. We must go and find the rest of the free folk. I don't see how we could do otherwise."

"The little man is right," Tormund says. "We have to go and find them."

"I understand all of this," Sansa allows, "but I can't stay here forever. I have to get back to Winterfell. The North is still trying to rebuild, and there are so many houses that have been snuffed out or left without leaders that it's difficult to keep it all together. If I'm gone for too long…"

"I agree with Sansa," Brienne says. "We came to find out what happened to Jon Snow and the free folk. Now that we know where you are and why, we can return to Westeros."

Tyrion and Tormund are in agreement; Sansa and Brienne are in opposition. Like so many other decisions, this one comes down to Jon Snow. They all turn to look at him, waiting for his answer.

Instead of answering, Jon turns and walks off into the woods alone.

*****

It's another decision that falls on Jon's shoulders. Jon is _tired_ of this. It's all he's done since he came back from the dead--one battle after another, one choice after another, and he's tired of choosing. He's tired of fighting.

Ser Alliser's words echo in his ears, even now: _I fought. I lost. Now I rest. But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever._

They're all watching him, waiting for his decision. And he cannot make it. 

And so he walks away, needing to think.

He felt Sansa's view most strongly, and it hurts, because it is tempting to accept what she offers. Take his pardon, let go of his vows, and go and live with her at Winterfell. It must be so hard for her to try to hold the North together when so much of it is gone, when he and Arya and Bran have been scattered to the winds and there is little left at Winterfell but ghosts. 

But Jon knows how that will end. Either men will defer to him, simply because he is a man and Sansa is not, and try to undermine her; or someone will take offense at his Targaryen blood and fault Sansa for bringing him back to Winterfell, again undermining the rule she has fought so hard for; or someone in the south who had supported Daenerys and wanted to see him dead will use his pardon as an excuse to attack Sansa and the North, whose army has been whittled down to the bare bones from endless wars. Daenerys had been wrong about many things, but she had not been wrong about what the knowledge of his parentage does to people. Jon will not have someone try to use him to undermine what Sansa has worked so hard to build. There would be no peace for him at Winterfell.

He is so tired of fighting. Daenerys had once said that people like what they're good at. Jon is good at fighting, but he does not like it at all. He had thought that his sentence to the Night's Watch somewhat of a blessing, in that he could simply go beyond the Wall to range in the empty lands of the true north with the free folk, but that has not turned out to be true. It is only more fighting.

"Jon?"

It's Sansa's voice, and Jon takes a deep breath before turning to her. "Aye. I'm only thinking."

Sansa closes the distance between them, lightly resting her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry." 

"So am I." He turns to her, taking her hands in his. "I should have known you'd come looking for me."

"I couldn't just let you disappear." Sansa squeezes his hands. "If you want to go and find the free folk… I don't like it, Jon. But if you want to go, I'm not going back to Westeros without you."

"What about the North?"

"I told them I was coming to find you," she says softly. "I'm not going back empty-handed."

Jon leans in, kisses her forehead lightly. "You would never let me be a lone wolf."

"No. I wouldn't." She sighs, drawing back a little to look at him. "What are you going to do?"

"Tormund wants to go find them, you heard him. I can't let him go alone."

"The Narnian king and queen can go with him," Sansa says. "They know more about this land than you do, it's their land."

"Tormund and the free folk helped us take back Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton," Jon reminds her. "They didn't have to help us. They only came south to fight the dead with me, remember? Then they agreed to help us take Winterfell when we asked. What kind of man would I be if I let Tormund fight for us, then leave him to do this alone? I owe him, Sansa. We both do."

"I… suppose you're right about that," she says, though it's a reluctant agreement. "We do owe him this."

Jon looks down at his hands, still holding hers. "I don't know my own mind, sometimes," he admits. "I was wrong about… Daenerys, and now I keep questioning everything. I need to make a decision and _know_ it's the right thing to do. Just once." If he can't do that, he thinks he will go mad. Not Targaryen madness, but a kind of despair that will come from doubting every action, every step, for the rest of his life.

Sansa's reply is so immediate that Jon is certain she is not thinking of what to say to make him feel better, but giving him her true thoughts. "You're doing the right thing," she says firmly, squeezing his hands. "I don't like it, so I don't want to admit it, but you are." 

That makes Jon feel a little better. "Then let's go tell them."

*****

"Do you know what I find curious?" Edmund muses, after the Westerosi contingent has been speaking amongst themselves for some time. 

"What?" Susan asks.

"This Jon Snow. He says he isn't the leader of the free folk or anyone else. His sister is the queen of one land, his brother the king of another, and that dwarf, Lord Tyrion, seems to be some sort of advisor to the brother, as is the lady knight. Yet every action he takes is that of a leader, and they all look to him more than any of the others."

Susan glances across the clearing. She and Edmund are far enough away that they cannot hear what they are saying, as eavesdropping is rude, but they can still see the Westerosi clearly. Lord Tyrion seems to be doing most of the talking, and furthermore seems very comfortable doing so. There is clearly some conflict between Jon Snow and his sister, with an apparent attempt at mediation by Lord Tyrion, and when everyone looks to Jon as if waiting for his decision, he walks off into the woods by himself. 

"When I went to tell him that we'd decided to let them go home, I talked to him a bit," Susan says. "I asked him what the penalty for taking a life was in Westeros, he thought about it for a moment, then said death, or exile, or 'taking the black.' And then before I could tell him what we'd decided, he said that if there must be a penalty, that we ought to take his life and let the free folk go home in exchange. And before that, he lied to me and said he was the one responsible for the deaths of the Rabbits and Squirrels, when a witness told me that he only caught fish, and he and his wolf ate nothing else." She watches the Westerosi for a moment, and Queen Sansa goes into the woods after her brother. They do not immediately return. "I know it's one thing to say you would, and another to do it, but I truly felt he would. I have no basis for that belief," she admits, "other than a feeling." And she well knows her 'feeling' has been quite wrong of late.

"'Taking the black,'" Edmund says thoughtfully. "Did he mention the Night's Watch to you?"

"No," says Susan. "What is that?"

"I'm not sure," Edmund says. "But he says he's a part of it, and that he took a vow to hold no lands, take no wife, and father no children."

Susan feels an odd sense of disappointment at that. Why would someone take such a vow? She thinks it would be one sort of sadness to never find a person whom you'd like to marry and have children with, yet another entirely to close yourself off from the possibility without ever looking. "He's dressed all in black," she points out, "where no one else from his world is. Do you think that's what 'taking the black' means? To join this Night's Watch?"

"Perhaps. Though I can't imagine what he could have done that would be terrible enough to warrant exile, when they all look at him like he's a leader."

"No." How could someone so determined to protect his people that he would give up his life for them be a criminal? "Aslan would not have allowed him to come here, if he were truly terrible," she adds. "Nor would his sister be so protective of him." A queen might be concerned about a criminal escaping punishment, but she would never go after such a person herself; and Queen Sansa looks like a woman worried for her brother--a feeling Susan knows well--not a queen pursuing a criminal. "Do you not think so?"

"I do. And this business with the Long Night and the Night King… whatever it is, I don't know what to make of it."

"Neither do I." The whole conversation has made Susan quite uncomfortable, as if they are prying into things that are not their business--they're not prying, truly, only discussing bits of information they were freely given. Yet Susan feels it is somehow discourteous. Gossipy, even. "I suppose it is not what happened in a man's past that matters so much as his present and future actions."

"Quite right," Edmund agrees. "Even a traitor may mend. I am proof of that."

After a time, Queen Sansa and her brother come out of the woods and rejoin the rest of the Westerosi to speak at some length. Then the lady knight, Sir Brienne, asks Edmund and Susan to join them to discuss what to do next. 

"I don't know if I believe in this Aslan, Your Graces," Jon Snow says, "but I have no reason to believe that Tyrion is telling anything other than what he believes to be the truth. "If there are free folk in the north of your lands, then we have to go find them and bring them home."

"If Aslan has given you this task, then it is our duty to assist you," says Edmund. "My sister and I will accompany you north, and give you whatever men, provisions and supplies you require. Did Aslan say where in the Wild Lands of the North the free folk could be found?"

"He didn't," Lord Tyrion says.

"Then I'm sorry to say that we ought to go back to Cair Paravel to provision ourselves appropriately," Susan says, with a glance at Edmund. "The Wild Lands are vast and not well charted. We are ill-equipped to undertake such an expedition from here."

"Why are you sorry?" Queen Sansa asks.

"Because it adds yet another week of travel to go back to Cair Paravel, Your Majesty, and I know you are anxious to be away for home," Susan answers. "And the free folk have walked all this way only to turn straight around and go back where they started. I imagine it is rather hard on the children and the old people."

"Har! You don't have to be sorry about that," Tormund says. "We are used to roaming where we please. Walking through such fine country as this is nothing."

"Still," Susan says, "I know it is inconvenient."

"I don't care about inconvenient," says Jon. "Your Graces know this land better than we do, so if you think it's necessary to go back, then it's necessary." He looks from Tormund to his sister and the others who came with her. "There's no need to waste any more time. We should start back now."


	4. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do not intend to remain here," Susan informs him. "I will go north with Edmund and the others."
> 
> "But you never go to the wars," Lucy says. "You've always hated it."
> 
> "This isn't a war," Susan says. "It is an expedition, and I am going." Jon Snow and the free folk came to Narnia on her watch, and she feels responsible for what happens to them. 

As most of the day was taken up by deciding what to do about the lost free folk, they do not get to travel very far before it's time to stop and make camp for the evening. After seeing to their horses, the Narnian queen comes to Sansa with a small basket in her hands.

"I was going to look for berries in the hedges by the river, Your Majesty," she says. "If you'd like to join me? I always feel a little stiff after a day of riding. A short walk usually helps."

Sansa has no reason to decline, really. "Of course, Your Grace." 

"I'd like it very much if you called me Susan," she says, as they turn and walk toward the river. Two of Sansa's men follow them at a discreet distance.

"Then you should call me Sansa." It's less formal than she'd like to be with someone she's just met and has until today been holding her brother prisoner, but she can hardly turn down Susan's polite gesture. 

"It's a lovely name." She gestures to the hedges on the bank. "There aren't many berries this early in the spring besides these little pink ones, but they're quite good. They'll break up the monotony of what we can catch along the way."

"I thought that's how my brother ended up your prisoner," Sansa says. "Catching things along the way?"

"It was," Susan says. "There are different kinds of animals in Narnia. The Talking Animals, and the regular sort. It's only the Talking Animals that have free will and thought like humans, and that was what the free folk took without knowing what they were. Once you know, they are easy to tell apart." She picks some berries off the hedge, putting them in her basket. 

Sansa watches her for a moment, seeing that she only picks the darkest pink ones, then starts picking a few herself and adding them to the basket. "Do you hunt often?" She'd seen the Narnian queen's quiver at her back when she rode, though she doesn't have it just now.

"No," Susan says. "I can--I'm a good shot--but I don't like to do it. I would rather shoot my arrows at a target in a tournament than at a living thing." From the next handful of berries, she eats a few, then offers some to Sansa. "Your brother didn't actually kill any of the Talking Animals though. Did he tell you?"

Jon hadn't told her, no. "Let me guess," Sansa says, taking the berries Susan offers. They are small, but they are tart little blooms on her tongue and quite delicious. "He tried to take the blame for everyone else and the punishment as well?"

"Something like that," Susan says. "It didn't work, because there were witnesses who saw what happened, but it was honorable of him all the same."

"Yes, it was." And stupid, and Sansa wants to shake him until his teeth rattle. One day he will get himself killed for his honor… again. "He learned that from our father."

Susan continues picking berries, gently placing them in the basket. "I think it was quite honorable of you to come after your brother," she says. "I would like to think that if either of my brothers were in that sort of trouble, I'd have the nerve to ride off into lands I've never been to before to look for them, but if I'm completely honest I'm not entirely sure I would be brave enough."

It's an unexpected compliment, and Sansa can't help but smile. "To be fair, I didn't know I was riding into a magical land full of centaurs and talking animals. Had I known, I might not have been brave enough either."

It's all small talk then, trivial sorts of talk about the weather and the terrain around them, but Sansa finds she doesn't mind. She hasn't had time for small talk in so long, having more important things on her mind, that she's almost forgotten how to do it. It comes back easily to her, though. By the time they return to camp, Susan has a full basket of berries and Sansa has some better idea of the people who held her brother in their dungeons for almost a fortnight, yet they are still a mystery to her.

The Narnians invite them to have supper by their fire. Sansa wonders at it. If there were foreigners who came to the North and killed some of her people, purposefully or no, she would not be so quick to sit and dine with them, nor to return them from where they've come. Yet the Narnians treat them as guests rather than invaders. They had seemed so keen to send Jon and the free folk and Sansa's party back to Westeros as quickly as they could, until Tyrion mentioned Aslan; then they offered their assistance without hesitation, demanding nothing in return. 

It doesn't make sense to Sansa, and it makes her suspicious.

 _Don’t fight in the North or the South,_ Sansa remembers Littlefinger saying. She hasn't thought of him in some time, but she can't help but remember one of the last things he said to her. _Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before._

*****

Susan wonders what Peter and Lucy's response will be to the free folk returning to Cair Paravel along with yet more strangers from Westeros, and decides that she will take matters in hand herself before they arrive. After speaking to Edmund at some length, she rides up beside Jon Snow. He has been quiet through their days of travel, sometimes riding at his sister's side or along with Tormund and the free folk, but more often than not he rides alone, speaking to almost no one, and she wonders at it.

"My lord, a word?"

"Of course." 

"I only wanted to say that since that Aslan's given you a task, my brother and I don't feel it's appropriate to treat you or your people as prisoners anymore," she says. "So we won't be keeping you in our dungeons when we return to the castle. Instead of our prisoners, you will be our guests."

"If Your Grace feels that's appropriate," he replies. 

"I do," she says. "If you were going to commit some offense against us, you would have done so already. But I don't believe you will."

"What makes you think so?"

"Do you truly want me to say?" This man is a puzzle to her, and the longer he is in Narnia, the more her curiosity is roused. "Then I shall. You accepted the blame for a crime you did not commit, then offered up your own life in exchange for theirs. You say you're not the leader of these people, yet your sister, a queen in her own right, and the advisors of your brother, a king, and all of these free folk look to you when a decision is to be made. You have a wolf, which is an animal known to everyone in Narnia for a hundred years to be an agent of the White Witch, yet he's been nothing but gentle to me and wouldn't eat the meat of the Rabbits and Squirrels even when the rest of you had no idea anything was wrong."

"And that gives you reason to think me a good man?" 

She is surprised how bitter his voice sounds. It is not a tone she has heard from him in these few weeks of their acquaintance. "Yes, it does," she says. 

"Then I am sorry to inform Your Grace that I am not."

"I do not believe you."

"You may believe or not believe as you like, Your Grace, but it changes nothing."

Rabadash was a terrible man who managed to convince her that he was good when he was not, but she has never known a good man to try to convince her he is a terrible one--until this Jon Snow. It is truly beyond her comprehension. "I am completely unconvinced, my lord," she says. "You may say you are not good all you like, but your actions carry more weight than your words."

"My actions? Meaning no disrespect, Your Grace, but you know nothing of my actions."

Then he _has_ done something terrible. Yet all of these people--the free folk, his sister, his brother's advisors--all look to him as if he is their leader. His sister left her land to search for him when she thought him missing. Unless all of these people are also terrible, why would they do these things? It defies logic, and that frustrates her.

She doesn't bring it up again on the journey back to Cair Paravel. It takes them a little longer to get back, being a larger party than they were before, and by the time they arrive she is tired and annoyed. Tumnus is in the bailey when they arrive, and he tells Susan and Edmund that Peter and Lucy wait for them in Peter's solar. Susan asks him to see that the free folk and the Westerosi troops are made comfortable, and invites Jon, Tormund, and the new arrivals to wait for them in the library after they have seen their men settled.

Peter and Lucy have already heard the essence of the story from the messenger Eagle who brought the cordial from Cair Paravel, but they want to hear it again. Lucy is initally opposed to helping the Westerosi, but she comes round when she hears it is Aslan who has tasked them with this journey. Peter, however, remains unconvinced.

"It could be a trick," he says. "Lord Tyrion could be using Aslan's name to gain our trust."

"For what purpose?" says Edmund. "If there was some subterfuge on their minds, the Wild Lands of the North would hardly be a strategic location from which to plot."

"Perhaps they know something of the Wild Lands that we do not," Peter suggests. "But I see I am outvoted, three against one. So be it. Let us meet with these Westerosi and form a plan. I will ask this Queen Sansa and Lord Tyrion to remain here as a surety against the good conduct of Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane, and the rest."

"I don't think they will agree to that," Susan says. "Queen Sansa seems quite concerned for the well-being of her brother, having traveled so far to find him. I expect she will not want to let him out of her sight."

"Then you will have to convince her to remain here with you," Peter says.

"I do not intend to remain here," Susan informs him. "I will go north with Edmund and the others."

"But you never go to the wars," Lucy says. "You've always hated it."

"This isn't a war," Susan says. "It is an expedition, and I am going." Jon Snow and the free folk came to Narnia on her watch, and she feels responsible for what happens to them. 

"Susan and I will go north, and you and Lucy will stay here," Edmund says to Peter. "We'll have to travel through Ettinsmoor, and you've just come from routing the giants there. If you come through their lands again, they may consider it an act of war. It's better we take a small party. That will give us a better chance of making it through Ettinsmoor undetected."

Susan and her siblings join the Westerosi in the library some time later, after working out the details of how they will proceed. Introductions are made, and a servant brings wine. The courtesies thus observed, Peter speaks. 

"We will allow the expedition to proceed under the following conditions," he says. "First, that my brother Edmund and my sister Susan will accompany your party north. As surety for your good conduct, we ask that Queen Sansa and Lord Tyrion remain here at Cair Paravel with my sister Lucy and myself."

"As your prisoners?" asks Sansa.

"As our guests," says Peter. "Second, the party that goes north will be small. We have just ended a war with the giants of the lands through which you'll have to pass to reach the Wild Lands of the North, and a large force may be seen as an act of aggression. The party should be no more than a dozen in total, from your men and ours. The remainder of your people will remain here at Cair Paravel under our protection."

"The free folk don't like living in castles," says Tormund. 

"Then they may make camp outside the castle walls, if they prefer," says Peter. "They must stay within a mile of the castle, but are otherwise free to move about as they wish. It is only by Aslan's word that we have allowed you to return," he explains. "We have not forgotten what happened when you came here. But if Aslan sees fit to keep you here for the time being, I must trust in his judgement."

Jon Snow thinks about this for a few moments, then says, "Give us a few moments to discuss your terms, Your Graces."

"Of course," says Peter. "There is a guard at the door. Let him know when you're finished."

*****

Jon waits until the Narnian kings and queens have left the library and the door has closed behind them. Then he turns to his sister. "What do you think?"

"Do we have a choice?"

"Not if we want to get these free folk back." He looks at Lord Tyrion. "You're the one who saw this Aslan. Do we have any choice other than to trust these people?"

"No," says Tyrion. "There is sense in Sansa and me staying here. You'll be able to cover more ground faster without us slowing you down. The faster you find them, the faster we can all go home."

"I don't like you going off on your own," says Sansa.

"He won't be on his own, little wolf," Tormund says, grinning at her. "I'll be with him. You think I'm going to let anything happen to him?" He claps Jon on the back, hard, and laughs. 

Sansa does not seem as amused as Tormund does. "Brienne should go with you as well," she suggests.

"I should stay here with you and Lord Tyrion," Brienne says.

"I'd like it if you'd go with Jon," she says. "It isn't that I don't trust you, Tormund," she adds. "You're one of Jon's most loyal friends. But I'd like another one of us with you, if two of them are going."

"One of them is a woman," Jon says.

"Women can't be dangerous?" Tormund says, giving Brienne a look. Brienne looks at the floor, her cheeks faintly pink. 

"I don't think she is," Sansa says thoughtfully. "She can use a bow, but she doesn't like fighting. At least that's what she told me. But women can be dangerous in other ways, and I don't know these people. I don't trust people I don't know. I'd feel better if Brienne goes along with you."

"All right. Tormund, Brienne, and me. You and Tyrion will stay here. I'll choose three of our men to go with us, and the Narnians can have four of theirs. That makes twelve." A part of Jon mislikes taking so few people into unfamiliar land, but King Peter isn't wrong that a smaller party will travel faster and will seem less aggressive if they are moving through the territory of the Narnians' enemies.

When they're all in agreement in how to proceed, the Narnians return to the library, where the remaining details of the plan are arranged. Afterward, Edmund goes to arrange fresh horses and provisions for the journey as well as the Narnian soldiers that will ride with them, Tormund goes to choose three of the free folk for the same reason, and a servant comes to show them to rooms. Not the dungeons, this time, but proper guest rooms. 

The Narnians are not ungenerous with their hospitality, he quickly discovers. The room itself is airy and pleasant, with a door to a balcony that gives a view of the sea, and soon there is a parade of servants bringing various things: hot water for bathing, fresh clothes, and a hearty supper. There is even something for Ghost, a whole roast chicken that the wolf devours within minutes. The clothes are black and plain, and not much different than his own, so Jon puts them on and tries not to feel strange about it.

It is too early to sleep and Jon has little patience for doing nothing, so he takes Ghost to find where the free folk have made camp. It bothers him to leave the free folk behind while they go north, but he can't see taking children and old people into territory that may be dangerous, especially when they need to travel quickly. The camp they are setting up in the shadow of Cair Paravel seems suitable. Women have already begun to set up their cook fires here and there, tents are being set up, and some children are playing with a ball at the edges of the camp. Jon spends some time playing with a group of children who draw them into their game, then goes off to find Tormund with Ghost padding at his heels. 

It's late in the evening when he returns to the castle. The evening air is cool enough that Jon is glad for his cloak. Cair Paravel is large enough that he hasn't yet learned his way around so he wanders for a time in the attempt to find his room, until he comes upon the library where they met with the Narnians earlier. There's a soft flicker of firelight from the half open door, and he knocks softly, then pushes it open. Queen Susan sits at a table strewn with maps, her chin propped on her hand, and she turns to look at him when she hears the door open. She's changed from her traveling clothes into a deep blue dress that looks almost black in the low light, and her hair is loose down her back and softly curling.

"Is something wrong, my lord?"

"No, Your Grace," he says, stepping into the room. Ghost noses past him to push his face against the queen's hand and she smiles softly, stroking his fur. "I went down to see that the free folk were settled and I got a bit lost on the way back."

"How are they?"

"Settling in well, Your Grace."

"They're welcome to stay in the castle," she says. "We've plenty of room."

"It's a kind offer, but the free folk don't care for castles. They don't like being penned in."

"You don't seem to mind."

"I grew up in a castle," he says. "Winterfell, it's called. No marble floors or colored glass windows, but it is a castle. It's built over a hot spring," he adds, "and the hot water moves through the walls and keeps it warm, even in the dead of winter." There are no marble halls or colored glass windows, but the walls of Winterfell are strong and Jon thinks there are few things more beautiful than Winterfell covered in freshly fallen snow, dotting the walls and the crenellations like sugar dusted on an iced cake.

"Oh, how clever! We haven't anything like that at Cair Paravel. But being on the sea, our winters are quite mild, or at least they are now that the White Witch is gone." She gestures to a chair beside hers, inviting him to join her, and after a moment's hestiation Jon sits. Along with the maps scattered across the table, there is a tray with a small silver pot on a low metal stand with a small candle beneath it, and two cups and saucers as one would have for tea. "Will you join me? I had hot chocolate sent up."

"I don't know what that is, Your Grace," Jon admits.

"Hot chocolate?"

"Is there any other kind? I don't know what chocolate is."

"Well," she says, reaching for the pot. "We must correct that immediately." She pours out a thick brown liquid into the cups, passing one to him. "Do be careful. It's hot."

Jon takes the cup and the warmth rising from it brings him an unfamiliar scent. It's almost like cinnamon, but creamy instead of spicy, and darkly sweet. He watches her with her cup, and when she blows lightly across the surface of her cup to cool it, he does so as well. Then he tries a cautious sip.

It's very good, and he grins despite himself. It has been so long since he's smiled about anything that his face feels it has forgotten how. "Chocolate, you call it?"

"Yes. You don't have it in Westeros?"

"If we do, I've not heard of it." Perhaps in Dorne or across the Narrow Sea in Pentos or Braavos or somewhere else he's never been, but certainly not at Winterfell or the Wall. "Sansa would love this." It's nothing like the taste of the lemoncakes she favors, but it's very good. "It would be as good as spiced wine in the dead of winter."

"Oh, it is," she says. "It's almost too warm for it now, but I wanted some before we left. It will certainly be too warm for it by the time we return. I'll be sure to have some sent up to your sister."

"That would be kind of you, Your Grace." He drinks his chocolate and looks at the maps on the table. Narnia is a very small country. He already knew this from the time it took to cross it, as he's done three times now, but seeing it on a map is another thing entirely, and he studies the lay of the land. Ettinsmoor lies to the north with the Wild Lands of the North beyond it, Telmar to the west, the Great Desert and an even smaller country called Archenland to the south, and below that an enormous country called Calormen. A small country surrounded by larger ones. He thinks Narnia would fit into the North thrice over and still have room left to spare. "How can a country so small defend yourselves on three sides?" he asks, incredulous. In the North they're fortunate that the Neck creates a defensible position against any armies coming from the south, but here… he shakes his head.

"There are harsh mountains between us and Telmar," Queen Susan says, showing him on the map. "Archenland is our ally, but like us, they are a small country. The Great Desert is too hot to cross much of the year, and when it isn't… the fear of Aslan mostly keeps the Tisroc in check."

"Mostly?" Jon asks.

A dark flush stains her cheeks, and her eyes fix on the map. "They laid siege to Anvard--that's the castle of our ally, King Lune of Archenland--some weeks ago. It was one of the reasons I had to detain you so long before we could come to a judgement. Edmund and Lucy had taken our armies there to break the siege, and I needed to wait for their return."

"Why did Calormen attack Archenland?"

"To secure it and use that position to invade Narnia," she says. "The crown prince was… angry that I had rejected his proposal of marriage. I suppose he planned to invade while Peter was in the north, and take me by force."

"I see." Jon puts down his cup and looks at her. She seems embarrassed and troubled by the admission, and he hadn't meant to cause distress. "Any man who thinks to take a woman by force deserves whatever he gets," he says gently, thinking of Ramsay Bolton and his treatment of Sansa. It had felt fiercely satisfying to pound Ramsay into the mud again and again until his face was little more than a red ruin. "I hope your brother served him justice."

"I have nothing to fear from him ever again," she says quietly.

"I'm glad to hear it."

The queen frowns, putting her cup aside and folding her hands in her lap. "I should never have let it get that far," she says, her eyes downcast. "It never should have come to war in the first place. We'd had an ambassador from Calormen, you see, with a proposal from the prince. It was very long and flowery and flattering, with descriptions of how he'd 'fallen in love' with me from afar and begging permission to pay a visit. That was accompanied by all sorts of extravagant gifts, and he brought more with him when he came. We held a tournament in his honor and he did all sorts of feats, winning the day, and between that and his compliments and the gifts, I got caught up in it all and he was able to convince me he was a wonderful person and that I was wildly in love with him. It was very exciting to be the center of attention, you see, and too easy to mistake that for genuine feeling. 

"Then Edmund and I paid a visit to Calormen. I was only there a few days before I was able to see his true face. In his own home, he showed himself to be a vicious beast of a man, and I would have been little more than … well. A slave, if I had married him," she says, her voice faltering a bit. "Edmund feared that once the prince had my flat refusal, he would simply kill all of them and take me by force, so we had to come up with a way to sneak out of the city and back home. Once the prince realized we were gone, he sent his armies north. All of this could have been avoided if I had not let myself get caught up in the excitement and attention and seen him for what he truly was sooner. Archenland suffered for my folly."

Jon says nothing during all of this. It is not the same as his story, but it is not truly different, either. _All of this could have been avoided if I had not let myself get caught up in the excitement and attention and seen him for what he truly was sooner._ Change a word or two and her words could describe how Jon felt with Daenerys. The excitement of having secured a valuable ally in the fight against the Night King and having hope that they might succeed, the excitement of falling in love, the excitement of sharing her bed, the excitement of climbing on a dragon and feeling the rush of flight… the excitement of feeling he was doing something _good_ and _right_ , that he had a purpose, that he _belonged_. He was so caught up in that excitement that he could not stop to listen to what Arya, Sansa, and Sam tried to tell him or the things he could see with his own eyes and feel in his own heart until it was too late. And King's Landing paid for his folly.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," he says, when she's finished speaking and he can finally gather his thoughts. "But you shouldn't… don't blame yourself too much, Your Grace. When someone tells you the thing you want to hear, it's difficult to hear anything else or see it with your own eyes. It's easy to become blinded by love, or what you think is love." Or duty, or what you think is your duty. 

"It sounds as if you speak from experience, my lord," she says quietly. Ghost bumps his head against her thigh and she obliges him with a gentle scratch behind the ear.

"I do." Gods help him, but he does. Jon does not think he will ever forgive himself for any of it. Sometimes, when it's quiet, he can still hear the sound his dagger made as it sank into her breast, and when he closes his eyes he sees the look on her face when she realized what Jon had done, realized that he had killed her. And the sound of Drogon's scream when he knew his mother was dead… Jon will not forget it if he lives to be a hundred.

Susan stands, smoothing her skirts, and Jon stands as well. They are of a height, he notices, and for a moment he thinks that she might say something else, but she does not, only looks at him. He feels he ought to say something else. Some platitude, perhaps, but none come to mind. To speak about Daenerys is unthinkable. He is not sure he will ever be able to talk about it, besides what little he has said to Sansa. To explain it to anyone else--he does not want to imagine it. If he speaks of what happened, of what he did, of what he _allowed_ to happen because he refused to act, he thinks it will open a wound he will never be able to close.

"I'm sorry," she says, finally, and slips past him and out of the library. He turns to watch her go, then sinks into his chair again, burying his hands and later, his face, in Ghost's soft white fur.


	5. Brothers and Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jon Snow!" Tormund booms. "Join us, little crow."
> 
> "I'd rather not," he says, nursing a cup of wine.
> 
> Tormund goes to the table, plucks the cup of wine from Jon's hand and downs it himself, and hauls Jon to his feet. "You ought to try living your life as if you are alive," he says, giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder and then a shove, and then Jon seems to have little choice but to join the rest of them on the floor. 

Tyrion wakes to a soft scratching sound. When he sits up in the bed, he sees that there is a large striped Badger building a fire in the fireplace.

"P-p-pardon me, my lord," says the Badger, clearly surprised to see him. "I thought everyone was awake and up for the day."

"It's all right," says Tyrion, who has still not adjusted to the idea that most of the castle's inhabitants are Animals of one sort or another. "Carry on."

The Badger finishes tending the fire and bows. "Their Majesties will be d-d-downstairs in the small hall if you'd like to join them to b-break your fast," he says, then scurries away, closing the door behind him.

Tyrion gets out of bed, gets dressed, and makes his way downstairs. He is not sure where the 'small hall' is, but he asks a passing servant with the upper body of a man and the lower body of a goat (a Faun, as was explained to him at some point along the journey to Cair Paravel) and is soon pointed in the correct direction. The small hall is a bit larger than the small council chamber in the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion thinks, though considerably brighter, with large glass doors on one side open to a view of the sea. It seems to be a common feature of rooms he's seen so far in this castle, save the library. 

The Narnian kings, Jon, and Brienne are already at table when Tyrion enters. "Lord Tyrion," says Edmund, gesturing him over. "Please join us."

"Your Graces." He climbs into a chair opposite Jon, who looks as though he slept little, and no sooner has he sat down than a servant (again, a Faun) places a generously-laden plate in front of him. Some of it is familiar--a brown boiled egg in a small gilt cup, bacon, sausage, and fresh, crusty bread--and others less so, such as thick slices of what appear to be some sort of juicy red fruit that has been blackened on a griddle. On the table there are pots of tea and small glass dishes of creamy butter and various preserves, one of which is blackberry along with others he cannot identify.

All of it is delicious. What Tyrion thinks is tea is actually something that Edmund explains is called _coffee_ , and Tyrion finds it is much better with a lump of sugar and a bit of milk. 

"I asked Mrs. Beaver to send breakfast up to Queen Sansa," says Peter. "Our sisters often break their fast in their rooms. I thought she might like to do the same."

"That was kind of you, Your Grace," Tyrion says, helping himself to some more coffee. He'd prefer a good dark beer to wash down his breakfast, but he truly cannot complain about the refreshing effect that coffee seems to have. 

"It takes women longer to prepare themselves for the day," Peter says. "One knows how they are."

Tyrion thinks of Sansa on their journey from Winterfell and beyond the wall, in her plain traveling attire and her hair in a simple braid. "Perhaps," he allows, spreading blackberry preserves on a piece of fresh bread, "but most of the women of my acquaintance are rather adaptable to whatever situation is at hand. Could you pass the butter, Ser Brienne?"

She does so, and Tyrion grins, as does Edmund. "Ser Brienne. I have never seen a lady knight before."

"Nor had we, until her," Jon says. "She's the first in all of Westeros."

"And Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," Tyrion points out. "Ser Brienne of Tarth, one of the finest swords in the Six Kingdoms or the North." 

"Lord Tyrion exaggerates," Brienne says, and though her tone is polite, she looks as though she would like to murder Tyrion with the butter-knife. 

"He does not," Jon says. "Lord Tyrion speaks the truth in this."

"I say, I am not sure I could cross swords with a woman," says Peter. "It would not seem right."

Edmund cracks open his boiled egg, giving his brother an inquisitive look. "So you didn't cross swords with the White Witch, then? I seem to recall that she had a distinctly feminine aspect."

"That was different," says Peter.

"Not at all," says Edmund. "I should not like to see either of our sisters with a sword, but there's no reason why other women can't have skill with a blade if they wish."

"Tell me, Jon Snow," Peter says, in a clear attempt to steer the subject to something else. "Your sister is queen of what you call the North, and Lord Tyrion advises your brother, king of the… Six Kingdoms, you called it? It seems queer indeed that siblings should rule different countries. And what of you, my lord?"

"I'm no lord, Your Grace. I'm a bastard," Jon says easily, which surprises Tyrion. He has heard Jon say this many times, yet it sounds different, now. A statement of fact, rather than a shameful admission. Perhaps it is easier for Jon to say now that he knows it is not true, or perhaps he no longer cares. "I have no title. Sansa and Bran are my half-siblings. That is why my surname is Snow, and theirs is Stark. They have our father's name, and I have the name given to bastards in the North."

"The north used to be part of the Seven Kingdoms," Tyrion interjects, to spare Jon from having to explain further. "But after the last war, the North became its own kingdom, under Sansa, and Bran was chosen as king by the lords of the remaining kingdoms."

"Choosing a king? A novel concept," Peter says.

"Aslan chose us," Edmund points out. "Is it truly so far fetched?"

"I've never heard of four kings and queens before," Tyrion says. "Three, perhaps, in the days of Aegon the Conqueror, from the old ruling family of the Seven Kingdoms. He married two of his sisters. But four? Certainly a novel concept."

Tyrion finds a small satisfaction at the look in King Peter's eyes at that. "Married to his sisters? What sort of man would do such a thing?"

"Put down your fork, brother, before you choke on your bacon," Edmund says, laughing a little. "You know every country we treat with does things differently than we do. And Lord Tyrion says it was the old ruling family. Not how things are done there now." He pours himself another cup of coffee and leans back in his chair. "Aslan crowned the four of us after the defeat of the White Witch and tasked us with caring for Narnia. We all rule together, although Peter is the High King. We decide everything together, at least all things of importance."

"Interesting." It seems to Tyrion that they function as their own small council, a system that has apparently worked well for at least a dozen years or so. Yet none of them are married. Tyrion is a poor judge of age, but he suspects the Narnians are closer to his age than that of Jon or Sansa. In Westeros, highborn men and women their age would have been long married by now, with a child or two for good measure. "And what will happen after you? Will it be Peter's line that succeeds, or will all of your children rule together?"

"It will be my line, when I marry, as I am High King." Peter places his napkin beside his plate and pushes back his chair. "Pray excuse me, my lords. The day's business awaits."

After his brother has left the hall, Edmund replaces his coffee cup in its saucer and leans an elbow on the table. "I apologize for my brother, my lords, my lady," he says, with a nod to Brienne. "He is the best man I know, but he has very set ideas about how the world should be and what everyone's place is in it, and does not like to have them challenged."

"He's given no offense, Your Grace," Jon says.

"Nor have any of you," Edmund says. "I've enjoyed hearing how things work in your world. You'll have to tell me more while we travel." Edmund excuses himself then, leaving the three of them together at the table. 

"You don't like their High King," Jon observes, once Edmund is out of earshot.

Tyrion shrugs and helps himself to another piece of bacon. He did not intend to bait the man when he woke up this morning, but he did not care for the way Peter scoffed at the idea of Brienne as a knight and insulted his own sisters and Sansa by insinuating they couldn't be bothered to come downstairs because they were too busy beautifying themselves. Tyrion is aware Sansa knows the time and place for such things, and he's seen enough of Queen Susan on the road to conclude she does as well. Besides, even if they did spend extra time on dressing themselves, they can hardly be blamed when queens are generally expected to be ornamental on top of everything else. Tyrion has never suffered under such an expectation. "His brother is far more likeable," he says. "I think the three of you will have a more pleasant time on the road than Sansa and I will here."

After breakfast, Tyrion decides to explore the castle. No one has told him that he couldn't, and until someone does, he will assume he's free to move about the castle as he pleases. It is truly a beautiful place. Between the sea views and the red-and-gold lion banners, Cair Paravel reminds him of nothing so much as Casterly Rock. Tyrion has not been back to Casterly Rock for many years, and the thought of it makes him strangely homesick. When _will_ he ever have time to go back there? He is Lord of Casterly Rock, something he's always wanted, but his duties as Bran's Hand keep him away from it. Perhaps one day he will be allowed to retire and go home. Then what? He has no one to pass it to. Some distant fourth cousin twice removed from Lannisport will inherit it when he dies, he supposes, but thought gives him no pleasure.

A covered walkway gives him a view of the courtyard below. It's a lush space, cool with the fresh green of spring and budding young flowers, crossed with tidy paths of crushed grey stone. Then the two Narnian queens and Sansa come into view, walking along one of the paths. He hardly recognizes Sansa or Queen Susan, dressed as they are in gowns more similar to the style of those in King's Landing, some years ago, than what he's seen them in on the road. The bright colors of their gowns make them look like jewels in the cool greenery of the courtyard.

Tyrion makes his way down to them.

"Your Graces," he says, when he catches up to them on the path.

"Good morning, my lord," Queen Lucy says. She has merry eyes and a ready smile, Tyrion thinks, though her sister looks somber. "I hope you slept well."

"I did, Your Grace. Thank you. Everyone has been very kind."

"I'm very glad." Queen Lucy glances at her sister, then turns to Tyrion again. "Would you excuse us? My sister and I have the day's business with our brothers. Please make yourselves comfortable in the gardens or the library or wherever you wish." 

The Narnian queens take their leave, and Tyrion and Sansa are alone in the courtyard. "What sort of Animal woke you up this morning?" he asks.

"A Beaver," Sansa says, the corner of her mouth turning up half a smile. "I thought I was dreaming. She bustled in with a cart laden with enough food for five people and said I looked as if I was starving. Then she sent in a maid to help me dress and do my hair, and Tyrion, she had pink _petals_ falling from her hair like a summer snow. She said she was a tree spirit. I really didn't know what to do other than to let her do her work." Sansa gestures at her dress, a sky blue damask shot with threads of silver and long, scalloped sleeves lined with a darker blue silk, matching the blue ribbon her hair is bound with. It makes her auburn hair seem a deeper red, Tyrion thinks. "It is one of Susan's, I think."

"It suits you."

Sansa's cheeks are faintly pink. "They are very generous," she says, and falls into step with Tyrion as they walk along the path. "I wonder at it."

"You do?"

"Jon was their prisoner until you spoke of Aslan," she says, "and now they treat us as honored guests. If some strangers killed my people, even by accident, I don't think I could see them as guests."

"No, I should think not." Tyrion knows why that is, though. He has seen Aslan and felt what it's like to be in his presence. But none of the words Tyrion knows could ever be adequate enough to describe what that was like. "I think they hold Aslan's opinion in high regard," he says, knowing it doesn't even scratch the surface. "They did say he is the reason they rule." 

Sansa sighs. "Why do you believe in what this Aslan had to say?"

"Because it feels right."

"You felt it was right with Daenerys Targaryen, too, didn't you?" 

Tyrion bristles at that and stops, looking up at her, an angry retort in his mouth that quickly dies away when he sees her face. Her tone is short, but her face tells him all he needs to know.

Sansa isn't angry. Sansa is _afraid_.

*****

Jon visits the free folk again after breaking his fast. He slept little the night before, and what little sleep he got was riddled with dreams of Daenerys, both good and ill. The strange drink called coffee at the Narnians' table helped to clear his head a little, but the cool morning air is even better, and by the time he reaches the free folk camp he feels more like himself. Tormund preferred to stay with the free folk instead of spending the night in the castle, and Jon spends the morning with Tormund, ensuring they have what they will need to get them through the coming weeks or months. Jon hopes they will not be gone for months. 

Leaving the free folk, he walks back up to the castle, Ghost following along behind him. He turns right after passing the outer gate and makes his way through the busy passages. The existence of the Talking Animals is something he still cannot quite understand, he thinks, as he watches a group of Rabbits unload baskets of vegetables from a wagon. Another turn takes him past a group of Badgers at a smithy. Some of the weapons they make are clearly suited for men, though six Badgers are at work on a great claymore that a single Badger cannot even lift by himself, larger even than Ice had been, and Jon suspects that he would have trouble wielding it as well. But centaurs, he has seen, are tall and strong enough to use them easily. There are other, smaller weapons as well, and as he inspects them, a Mouse haggles with one of the Badgers over a delicate, wickedly sharp blade that could be Arya's Needle in miniature. When the two have agreed on a price and the Mouse walks away with his new sword, the Badger turns to Jon.

"Might I be of assistance?" He gives Ghost a wary look.

Jon smiles. "No, thank you. I was only looking. You do fine work." He has only seen a little of what the Badger has on offer, but from what he can see, his work is just as good as that of Mikken or Gendry or any other smith Jon has known. He suspects that making small weapons of high quality takes as much skill, or more, than those of normal size.

The Badger eyes Longclaw at Jon's hip and grins (Jon has never seen a Badger grin before, and the effect is startling). "Milord seems well equipped already. Could I have a look?"

"Of course." Jon draws Longclaw from its sheath and places it carefully on the counter in front of the Badger. "It's called Longclaw."

"The best blades have names," the Badger says, his eyes going wide as he inspects the sword. "I have never seen steel such as this." He picks up the sword carefully, surprise evident in his striped face when he realizes that the sword is lighter than it looks. "How is this achieved? The rippled pattern, the lightness of it?"

"It's called Valyrian steel," Jon says. "It's a special kind of steel where I'm from. No one knows how to make it anymore, though. They were made in a land called Valyria, but all the people who lived there are now gone. There are only a handful of Valyrian steel weapons left."

"Valyrian steel. I've never heard of such a thing." The Badger's eyes are round with wonder. "I would very much love to learn to make a weapon such as this. I've never seen anything like it, not even dwarf-forged steel." He reverently passes the sword back to Jon.

"I wish I could tell you more," Jon says, sheathing Longclaw again, "but I don't know anything more than that." He looks over the Badger's wares again, his eyes drawn to a display of daggers. Arya has more weapons than she could possibly ever need, he thinks, and is probably collecting more wherever she goes. She wouldn't have anything from Narnia, though. He'll bring one back to give her, if he ever sees her again. _When_ , he corrects himself. _When_ he sees her again. The thought of never seeing Arya again makes his heart hurt. 

"I don't have any Narnian coin," Jon says, "but I do have gold." Gold is gold no matter where one travels. "I'd like to buy a dagger for my sister. No," he says, "two daggers." Sansa will be in this castle on her own with just Lord Tyrion on her side for gods know how long. She ought to have something with which to defend herself, should it be necessary. 

After some discussion with the Badger, Jon leaves the smithy with a little less coin than he had before but in possession of a matched pair of daggers, perfectly sized for a woman's hand, well-wrapped and tucked into his cloak. He heads back to the keep proper with the intent of giving Sansa one of the daggers now, but it's King Peter he sees first. Jon tries not to be annoyed. He did not care for their conversation at breakfast, though how much of it was the king's doing and how much of it was his own dark mood he cannot say. 

"Your Grace."

"Good day, my lord." The king stops, so Jon feels obligated to do so as well. "I wondered if we might have a word?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

The king continues walking, and Jon falls into step with him. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior at breakfast," he says. "It was poorly done. I had no right to inquire about your family's situation, or your title or lack thereof."

"There's nothing to forgive, Your Grace," Jon says. He thinks that at one time, he would have found great offense in having to explain the name _Snow_ , but now it simply is who he is, as much as his height or the color of his eyes. Jon knows that he is not truly a bastard, but the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and he is grateful that he knows it, but he will never be able to think of himself truly as anything other than Ned Stark's son, as brother to Arya and Sansa and Bran. 

There is little sense in being anything other than Jon Snow in Narnia, where no one knows or cares about the feuds between people and families who are long dead in a country they've never heard of. Jon finds it a relief.

"It was rude of me," Peter says. "My brother caught me out on my foolish words about women, and I said something unworthy in hopes of moving the talk away from me and on to someone else. Please accept my apology, my lord."

"Think no more of it." It is not as though Jon has never said things he wishes he could take back. 

"Very well, then." Jon gets the sense that the king is not finished speaking, so he says nothing, and is proven correct when Peter adds, "Queen Sansa and Lord Tyrion will be treated with every courtesy while you are in the north. I would not like you to think you must worry for your sister's safety."

"I will always worry for my sister's safety," Jon admits. "As any brother should."

"Quite right. I hope that my sister will be treated similarly when she goes north with you."

"I would not dream of doing otherwise, Your Grace." Susan's brothers seem quite protective of her. After the story she shared with him in the library the previous night, Jon has a better idea why that might be. She was tricked by a man who was cruel to her, a man who tried to retake her by force. It is only right that they would not want her to be in danger again. Jon cannot fault them for it, as he feels the same about Sansa.

The king takes his leave, then, and Jon resumes his search for Sansa. He finds her in a courtyard with Tyrion, the same shaded courtyard where Susan uncovered the lie he told to protect the free folk some weeks ago. They look to have been there for some time, judging from the remnants of the tea and wine that had been set on the table near them.

"It seems the expedition north will depart in the morning," Tyrion says, when Jon joins them. Ghost flops onto his side in the shade, his long legs sprawled in the grass.

"All is nearly ready," Jon says. He takes a seat near Sansa, pulling one of the wrapped packages from his cloak. "This is for you," he says. "Go on. Open it."

Sansa unwraps the package, letting the wrappings fall away, and she looks at it for a long moment. The dagger is small and elegant, with an engraved hilt and a snug-fitting sheath banded in silver. "I don't know what to do with this," she says.

"You did well enough with the dead in the crypts," Tyrion says. 

"That was different."

"Not really," says Jon. "I'll show you how to use it. I don't think you'll need it, in truth. You have your men and Tyrion's here, and I think we can trust these Narnians." He does not particularly _like_ King Peter, he decides, at least not as much as he likes Edmund. But he does not think him a danger to Sansa or Tyrion. "But I'll feel better when I go north if I know you have it."

"Thank you, Jon."

Jon doesn't have time to make sure she's truly skilled with the knife, but there's enough of the afternoon that he can give her the basics. He makes sure she can hold it with either a forward grip for an outward thrust or a reverse grip for a downward strike and knows when to use each. He teaches her to strike across the eyes or the throat and lets her practice lunging at him because he knows he's quick enough to get away from her. Sansa will never be a warrior. She isn't Arya, either. Sansa needs to be able to defend herself, though. Jon thinks she's perfectly capable of that. 

Sansa does well with strikes across the eyes or throat. He thinks that would be most useful for her, as they take less strength, and she's tall for a woman, which gives her an advantage. She might not be able to manage a strike to the body, but he teaches her anyway, and shows her how to aim for the kidneys, which hurts like the seven hells if you do it right and can drop a man like a stone. But when he explains how to aim for the heart, his voice falters and he steps back, dropping his own knife to the ground, as a grey fog clouds his mind like the ashes that rained down on King's Landing. In his mind, all he can see is Daenerys, all he can hear is the sound of his dagger sinking into her heart and faint hitch of her last breaths. His nose is full of the smell of the blood that trickled from her mouth and nose, the charred stench of the bodies of the smallfolk burned by dragonfire, and the hot, metallic reek of scorched and melted steel as Drogon blasted the Iron Throne in his grief. The betrayal and hurt in her eyes swims in his vision as if she were in front of him, as if he was holding her again and feeling her last breaths; his chest is tight and his throat burns and aches and something cold and fearful coils in his belly.

"Jon? _Jon_."

Sansa's hand on his arm brings him back to himself and he jumps as if he's been scalded.

"Are you all right?"

He nods. His hands are clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles are white, and he unclenches them with an effort. "Aye."

"Come and sit," Sansa says, and steers him to one of the cushioned chairs, then presses a cup of wine into his hand. "Here. Drink."

Jon drinks the wine in two swallows without tasting it. Tyrion retrieves his dropped dagger, placing it on the table. "You were thinking of of Daenerys," he says quietly.

"Aye," Jon says again. Ghost pushes his face against Jon's hand and Jon curls his fingers in Ghost's fur. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sansa asks softly, her hand on his arm.

"I do not." He can never talk about it. Thinking of it is bad enough. 

"Jon--"

"I said, I don't want to talk about it!" he snaps, and Sansa flinches. Jon hates himself a little for that, and he takes a breath. "I can't."

"It's all right." Sansa's voice is gentle. "Just sit a while." After a moment, she draws her hand away, and the three of them sit in silence for a time. 

Long after Sansa and Tyrion finally begin to talk of other things, Jon can only hear Drogon's scream.

*****

It isn't a feast by Cair Paravel standards, but it is a more festive meal than usual on the night before their departure. At least, it is a more festive meal than usual according to the number of courses and the number of guests in the hall, with the Pevensies, Jon and Tormund, Queen Sansa, Lord Tyrion, and Sir Brienne at one table, and the Stark and Lannister guards (the free folk chose to sup at their own cook fires) at another. 

The mood in the room, however, is less than festive, Susan thinks. Jon Snow and his sister are quiet at first, as is Lord Tyrion. Tormund entertains them with a story about a battle against some undead ice creatures during the first course, a spicy soup full of plump shrimp and savory crab, but when he speaks of Jon Snow climbing on a dragon and raining fire down on the enemy, Jon gives him a look, and he abruptly changes the subject. The fish course is grilled pavenders, caught fresh from the sea below Cair Paravel just hours before, followed by a dish of thinly sliced beef roasted with slices of onion and little red, yellow, and orange peppers that can be eaten whole, and tiny red potatoes baked in butter and spices until their skins are cracked and crispy. A different wine is served with that than at the beginning of the meal, and that brings Lord Tyrion to a discussion about various wines from a place in Westeros called the Arbor and another called Dorne, and another honeyed wine from a town called Lannisport near his family's castle. He and Edmund have a long discussion about wine that Susan only half listens to because she does not understand the various subtleties of wines. 

Further down the table, Peter is seated to Sansa's right, and though Susan cannot hear everything he's saying to her, he seems quite caught up in their conversation. Susan realizes that she has never heard Peter speak so many words to a woman who was not herself or Lucy. Tormund tells Lucy and Sir Brienne about something called a shadowcat that he claims to have caught and skinned with his bare hands after chasing it for six miles through the snow. Susan is doubtful that this is possible, but he tells it in such an entertaining way that it really does not matter if it is entirely truthful. Jon, seated at her right, has little to say. She wonders if she has given offense in some way. 

There are three kinds of cheese and more wine, and then baked apples stuffed with raisins and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, a trifle of peaches and pomegranates, and tiny lemon tarts that Sansa declares to be her favorite. There is a separate wine with each of these and by the end, Susan's head is swimming. 

"I haven't eaten so much in ages," Lucy says, when the last course has been finished and the last of the wine has been drunk. "I do feel as though I will burst."

"I for one have enjoyed it," says Lord Tyrion. "You set a fine table, Your Graces. I can't think of anything that would make it better."

"I can," says Peter, and claps his hands. "Let us have music and dancing."

"Oh, Peter, it's late," Susan protests, thinking of tomorrow's early start, but he has already sent for musicians and is moving tables and chairs to clear a space. Despite the short notice, a small consort of a lute, reed-pipes, and a tambor is assembled, and one of the Lannister guards pulls a sort of whistle from a pocket in his cloak. Lucy cajoles everyone onto the floor and is successful at convincing most of the Lannister and Stark guards, Sansa, and even Sir Brienne, though Lord Tyrion begs off on account of his short legs. 

"I don't know any dancing," says Tormund, with a doubtful look.

"Oh but we'll start with an easy one," Lucy promises, dragging him toward the floor. "It's quite fun, I promise. I'll teach you. If you hate it, you only have to do the one."

"Jon Snow!" Tormund booms. "Join us, little crow."

"I'd rather not," he says, nursing a cup of wine.

Tormund goes to the table, plucks the cup of wine from Jon's hand and downs it himself, and hauls Jon to his feet. "You ought to try living your life as if you are alive," he says, giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder and then a shove, and then Jon seems to have little choice but to join the rest of them on the floor. 

Susan holds her hand out to Jon in invitation. "I don't dance," he says.

"It's easy," she promises him, seeing his clear reluctance. He hesitates, then takes her hand, and she squeezes it lightly. "Just follow me, if you lose the way."

The first dance is one that's done with everyone in one large circle, the sort of thing that's the easiest dance to do when there are far more men in the room than women. Sansa takes Jon's other hand to complete the circle and since no one knows the steps properly except for the Narnians, Lucy shows them the steps without the music first. It's simple enough, the easiest dance Susan knows. The circle moves to the left, then the right, then in and out, and a series of claps and stamps before the dance repeats. The Westerosi catch on quickly, even Tormund, who gives a shout after all the stamps when the dance repeats and soon everyone is shouting and laughing. 

There's another dance that starts off with partners, but it doesn't matter if the partners are men or women. The only tricky part of this dance is that the partners have to clap their hands in a certain way--right hands, left hands, then both together--before linking elbows to spin each other about and then walking about the room to find a new partner before the dance repeats. Again, no one knows this dance except for the Narnians, so Lucy teaches it to everyone, which creates a jolly confusion when half the dancers have had so much wine they forget which is right and which is left and end up collapsing in laughter instead of clapping. Jon does not mix up his right and left, though, despite having had as much wine as the rest of them, and when it's time to switch partners, she catches the barest hint of a smile, so slight she thinks she might be imagining it. The dance repeats so much that she thinks she has danced with nearly every man in the room--all of the Stark guards and most of the Lannisters, both her brothers (Edmund twice), and finally with Tormund, who is oddly graceful for someone who has never danced before.

There are other dances too. Some in lines, some in circles, some that trade partners every so often and some that don't, and by the end of it Susan's feet are aching and she's panting for breath, but she hasn't had such fun since long before Calormen. She can't even remember the last time she danced so much. Perhaps it was King Lune's silver jubilee at Anvard two years ago, or the Summer Festival the year after that. But neither of those times were quite as good as this, even if her hair has mostly fallen from its braid and her feet are throbbing in their slippers and she feels as though she might have sweated through her dress in a rather unattractive way. Eventually, the group begins to disperse. Susan slips off her shoes, feeling the cool marble against her aching feet, and goes out to the balcony for a little air. The breeze is much better here on this side of the castle than it is on the balcony off her own bedroom. She drops her slippers to the floor and gathers up her hair to lift it off her neck so that the breeze can cool her skin.

It takes her a moment to realize that Jon is already there; dressed in black as he is, she didn't see him in the shadow, leaning on the balcony rail. "I'm sorry," she says, letting her hair fall. "I didn't realize you were here."

"It's all right, Your Grace," he says, turning to her. 

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Jon appears to think about it for a moment, then he nods. "Aye," he says quietly, "I did. I didn't think I would. This isn't my thing," he adds, gesturing to the hall, now almost empty. "Feasts, parties, all that. But I liked it some."

"Some?" she asks, gently teasing.

"All right. More than some," he admits. "But I wouldn't make a habit of it."

"Goodness no. We can't make a habit out of having fun." She's still teasing him a little, but he's so _serious_ that she can hardly help herself. "Why did Tormund tell you that you should try living your life as if you are alive?"

"Because he's a bloody nuisance," Jon says, but there's fondness for his friend in his voice, not malice. "He's always taking the piss out of me. He thinks I'm too serious."

"Is he wrong?"

Jon frowns a little. "No," he says. "But I'm a man of the Night's Watch. It's a serious life." He glances inside at the now-empty hall. Most of the candles have burnt down and out by now, and only the great fireplace and a few torches remain to light it. "We don't do things like this."

Susan thinks of what Edmund says of the Night's Watch, that they hold no lands, take no wives, and father no children. It seems a waste for a man like Jon Snow to be chained to such a life. Not for the first time, she wonders why he is part of the Night's Watch. "There's nothing wrong with living a little, sometimes," she says carefully, watching him. He has such a serious face, with solemn, dark eyes, and wonders what it would be like if he smiled a true smile. There was a hint of it, when they drank chocolate in the library, but she wonders what a _true_ smile from him would look like. "Just because you have a little fun sometimes, doesn't mean that you can't be serious when you need to be. I think… too much seriousness is just as bad as too much frivolity. One ought to have a balance."

"Aye. You might be right." 

"I'm wrong about a great many things very often, Jon Snow," she says, laughing a little, "but this is one of the few things I'm sure I'm right about." She touches his hand lightly where it rests on the railing of the balcony. "Tormund gave you good advice. Try to live your life as though you are alive." Then she draws her hand away, stooping to pick up her slippers where she'd dropped them earlier. Her feet are still too tired and hot to put them back on. "Good night, my lord."


	6. The River Shribble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The expedition to the Wild Lands of the North begins.

After the tree-spirit maid, Daisis, helps her out of her dress and into a nightgown, Sansa does not immediately go to sleep. Her feet ache from dancing and her head swims from tasting so many different wines at dinner. Sansa lost count after the first three. Even if not for her aching feet and her swimming head, she would still be anxious about Jon leaving for the north tomorrow, and she would not be able to sleep. Part of her worry is simply Jon going away, but the other part of it… 

Jon had been quiet through most of the feast. That in itself was not surprising, considering what had happened in the courtyard that afternoon. And she had not expected him to dance, when King Peter called for it, but he'd let Tormund drag him from his chair and when he'd taken the Narnian queen's hand, she saw something in his face that surprised her and worried her in equal measure.

There is a thick nightrobe in the wardrobe, trimmed in vair. She pulls it on and steps out into the corridor.

The guest rooms are on a hall that runs parallel to those of the Narnian kings and queens, she realizes, after a bit of wandering. Sansa asks the guard in the hall if she might speak to Queen Susan, and after a few moments, she's granted entry.

"Come in." Susan is already dressed for bed, and her maid, a tree-spirit like Daisis, brushes out her hair.

"Am I disturbing you, Your Grace?"

"Please call me Susan," she says, "and no. You aren't. Is everything all right? Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes. Your hospitality has been most generous. I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment? I know it's late, but you'll be leaving in the morning."

"Of course." Susan dismisses her maid with her thanks and moves to a low couch by the fire, gesturing for Sansa to join her. "What can I do for you?"

Sansa waits until the maid has closed the door behind her before speaking. "I suppose I should just be direct," she says. "My brother… has a habit of being honorable to a fault."

"I've gotten that impression." 

"He tends to pledge himself to a cause and see it through to the bitter end no matter the cost to himself. He's like our father in that." She knows her father isn't the man who fathered Jon, but Ned Stark is still Jon's father in all the ways that matter; thus, Jon is her _brother_ in all the ways that matter. When she looks at Jon she sees a Stark, not a Targaryen. "I don't want to see him do anything stupid while he's in the north, looking for the free folk."

"Something stupid," Susan says thoughtfully. "What sort of thing are you worried about?"

Sansa has not known Susan long enough to know whether or not she can trust her. She would _like_ to trust her, she thinks, but there are too many people Sansa has trusted that have betrayed her. Trust is not a coin Sansa can easily afford to spend. So her words are cautious. "Men do stupid things for women," she says, thinking of Jon and Daenerys, of Robb and the wife Sansa never met, and even of Rhaegar and her aunt Lyanna, whose actions caused so much heartache. Seeing the way Jon looked at Susan tonight, she fears him doing something that will only bring him heartache, or worse.

The look of surprise on Susan's face is genuine, Sansa thinks. "Jon isn't going north for _me_ ," she says. "He's going north for the free folk."

"And you're going with him."

" _Edmund_ and I are going with him," Susan says. "It's best that Peter doesn't go, as he just came back from fighting the giants in the north. His presence might be seen as an act of aggression when we cross through Ettinsmoor, so Edmund is going instead."

"And you?"

"I'm going because your brother and the free folk came to Narnia on my watch. Peter was in the north with the giants, Edmund and Lucy were in the south fighting beside our allies in Archenland, and I was here. I feel responsible for them." Susan folds her hands in her lap, giving Sansa an even look. "Until a week ago, your brother was our prisoner and we had every intention of sending him home until we learned what Aslan wants him to do. Even then, we would have sent him home, if he had wished it. If you think we have some ulterior motive to keep him here, I assure you, we do not."

Sansa would _like_ to believe her. "I want my brother to come home," she says. "That's all I want. That's why I came after him."

"Then why was he not already home with you?" Susan asks. "Instead of with the free folk? With this Night's Watch? I understand they take certain vows… I am sorry, but we don't have anything like that in Narnia so I don't quite understand it."

So Jon has said nothing to the Narnians of what happened. Sansa is not surprised. What happened in the courtyard earlier makes it clear to her that Jon cannot bear to discuss it with even her or Tyrion, much less someone he barely knows. "The last heir of the old ruling family of Westeros came back to try to reclaim her father's throne." There is little point in sharing much more detail than this; these facts are all the Narnians need to know. "She killed thousands of innocent people in her attempt to claim her throne and would have killed more, had Jon not assassinated her. Her supporters wanted him executed for murder; my sister and I wanted him freed because he prevented further deaths. Sending him to the Night's Watch was exile, a compromise to avoid another war. I didn't want him to go there."

"But you didn't have an alternative at the time."

"No," Sansa says. "He was being held in an occupied city. If we hadn't agreed to send him to the Night's Watch, they would have killed him and started another war, and we've had too much war already. But now that I'm queen in the north and we are starting to recover from the wars, I want to pardon Jon and let him come home, where he belongs."

Susan smiles gently. "I have known terrible men who convinced me that they were good," she says quietly, "but your brother is the first good man who has tried to convince me that he is terrible. I could see that he is good, and you've only confirmed it."

"Jon is a good man," Sansa agrees. "He's the best man I know. And he doesn't deserve what's been done to him."

Susan reaches for Sansa's hand, squeezing lightly. "I'll look out for him while we go north," she promises. "And I'll bring him back to you, so that you can go home together."

*****

The sun has not yet risen over the Eastern Sea when the group of Narnians and free folk assembles in the bailey to make ready to leave. Jon checks a third time to be sure everything is in order, then says his goodbyes to Tyrion and Sansa. "Be careful," Sansa says, giving him a warm embrace.

For a moment, Jon has to squeeze his eyes closed and take a deep breath. The last time he'd said goodbye to Sansa had been on the docks of King's Landing, and it had felt like a real goodbye, the kind that feels final. This one feels final too, and he mislikes it. "I'll be back before you know it," he says gruffly, and turns away to mount his horse. He does not look back at the castle as they ride away.

The whole party is mounted, as the Narnians have provided horses to the free folk in their party who originally came on foot, and so they should make better time. The only exceptions are a pair of Eagles who fly above them, who will serve as scouts and messengers as needed, and Ghost, ambling easily alongside or at the head of the group as he pleases. There are also three pack horses, carrying provisions and gear. The four Narnian soldiers are all men, not the centaurs or other creatures Jon has grown used to seeing, and everyone is dressed plainly--the free folk in their furs, Jon in his blacks, the Narnians in plain traveling garb without the golden lion sigil normally borne on their banners and shields. Brienne has traded her Kingsguard armor for plainer clothes as well. To all appearances, they are a group of simple travelers. This is necessary, Edmund had explained, to attract as little attention as possible when traveling through Ettinsmoor due to the recent war with the giants there. The only tells, Jon thinks, that give them away are Brienne's and Jon's Valyrian steel, the castle-forged steel of the Narnians, and Susan's ivory quiver banded in gold.

Their route takes them along the coast for the first day. The coastline just north of Cair Paravel looks nothing like the shore at King's Landing, Dragonstone, White Harbor, or Eastwatch. The beach is a strip of smooth sand that is packed firm enough that their horses can walk easily over it, and wide enough that they can travel three or four abreast with room to spare. The wind is brisk and carries their words away as soon as they are said, so conversation is difficult and they mostly ride in silence.

Ghost runs along the edge of the surf, occasionally snapping up a small fish that swims too close too shore and splashing in the waves. Jon realizes his wolf has never seen the sea. He had left him behind with Sansa the first time he went south to meet Daenerys, and left him with Tormund when he went south for the last time, thinking the south was no place for a direwolf. He had not been wrong about that. For a moment this morning, he had thought to leave him behind with Sansa again, for her protection, but he realized he can never leave his friend again. Seeing Ghost play in the surf, acting half a pup, brings a smile to Jon's face. 

In the afternoon, the coastline begins to change, becoming more narrow and rocky, and a light rain begins to fall. Jon pulls up the hood of his cloak to keep the rain out of his eyes. Their progress slows a little, as the coast becomes more uneven and the wind picks up. The land to their left becomes higher and more cliff-like instead of the mostly flat and sometimes thickly wooded land around Cair Paravel. Jon wonders why they don't leave the beach proper and move a little inland for smoother travel, but the reason soon becomes clear. Just before sundown, they come to a large cave in the side of the cliff and Edmund announces they will stop here for the night. Jon is thankful for the chance to get out of the rain. He doesn't mind snow and cold, but rain is a misery he's not made for.

The next day brings even more rain. They turn a little inland about an hour past the cave when they come to the delta of the River Shribble, and the land becomes more marsh like. Susan explains that the Shribble outlines part of the boundary between Narnia and Ettinsmoor. If they could hug the coast all the way north they would be less likely to be detected, but the River Shribble forks into six smaller rivers before it meets the sea and is too marshy and impossible to cross in the delta. They'll ride inland and cross at the Great Fork, then turn back to the coast. 

In some places, the marsh along the banks of the River Shribble is so thick and sodden that the only passable land is a track wide enough for a single rider at a time. The rain doesn't help matters. It reminds Jon of the boggy land near Moat Cailin. Even Ghost has no patience for the treacherous bogs and trots along in front of Jon's horse instead of running about as he pleases. There are lizard lions (Edmund calls these _alligators_ ) and snakes and Susan mentions something called a _marsh-wiggle_ but these creatures are shy, she says, so he may not see one. 

Late in the day, they arrive at the Great Fork. The river is not overly wide here, but it is quite deep and swift, swollen from the spring rains and hurtling along the bottom of a gorge. The width of it is spanned by an ancient-looking stone bridge that is just wide enough for one rider at a time. As they pull up to the bridge, Jon notices Susan looking rather pale and gripping her reins far more tightly than necessary. 

"Your Grace?" he says, drawing his horse up alongside hers.

"I'm rather afraid of heights," she admits. "Silly of me, I know, but that is what it is. I've been dreading crossing this bridge for the entire trip."

"Then you'd better be one of the first to go across," Jon says. "So you can get on with it instead of sitting and waiting and dreading it. The waiting makes it worse."

"It isn't very brave of me."

"When you're afraid of something, that's the only time you _can_ be brave," Jon says. Then he thinks of her encouragement to join her in dancing at the feast, holding out her hand to him with her eyes soft and warm and not caring at all that he had no idea what he was doing, and he says, "Just follow me, if you lose the way."

Edmund suggests everyone dismount and lead their horses across, owing to the narrowness of the bridge and the low visibility from the pouring rain. Tormund goes first, leading his horse, then Jon and his horse and Ghost. The wind seems far worse out on the bridge, the rain making the stones as slippery as waterweed, and his heart pounds in his throat at the idea of putting a foot wrong and hurtling to the rushing water at the bottom of the gorge. If it's making him uneasy, he imagines Susan is terrified beyond words. Leaving his horse with Tormund on the far side of the river, he turns back and goes across for her. "Come on," he says. "Take my hand. Edmund's right behind you."

Susan puts her hand in his, trembling like a leaf in the wind, but her steps are steady. There's a huge clap of thunder and her horse shies and snorts, balking and backing off the bridge. "Let him go," Jon says. "We'll come back for him. You get across first." Susan drops the reins and out of the corner of he sees Edmund catch Susan's horse at the edge of the cliff before he can bolt and fling himself into the gorge. An enormous gust of wind catches their cloaks, whipping them so hard Jon feels they will be yanked off the bridge entirely, and then everything happens so fast he cannot react--another huge clap of thunder, a bone-shattering _crack_ of stone and the bridge shudders beneath them. He loses his balance and for one long, terrible moment he thinks he might be able to right himself and Susan and keep their footing, and then they're both falling, falling to the churning waters below.

He loses his grip on Susan's hand when they hit the water, and he tumbles head-over-heels for what feels like an eternity until he slams backwards into a rock in the middle of the river. Water rushes into his mouth and nose, the current pinning him mercilessly against the rock, and no matter how hard he fights he can't get more than a quick gasp of breath before the current threatens to drag him under. _I'm going to die here,_ he thinks. _I was brought back from the dead just to drown in this river…_ He'll never see Winterfell again, never see Sansa and Arya again, and it's the thought of never seeing Arya again that makes him keep fighting, trying to find something to grab onto or push against to break the current's grip on him, but there's nothing. He gasps for air, taking in nothing but water, and his vision starts to dim and he realizes he's going to pass out, and then he'll sink below the water and that will be the end of him. 

He will die, and this time it will be for good.

 _I should have died long ago,_ he thinks, and just as he starts to sink below the water, something strong and terrible like a huge velveted paw wraps around him and drags him to the bank. Jon tries to scramble to his feet, but he's choking and coughing and cannot breathe. Something smacks him sharply on the back and he coughs up a gush of water, his lungs burning, and he looks up to see a great Lion. Despite the pouring rain, the Lion's fur is soft and dry, the rain rolling off him in fat, shining droplets without touching him. 

"I would not let you drown, Jon Snow," says the Lion. 

"Thank you." Of all the wondrous things Jon has seen in his life, this Lion is the most beautiful and terrible of them all. There is a comfort in looking at him; at the same time, he feels if he looks at him for more than a few moments his eyes might burn away. "Are you Aslan?"

"I am," says the Lion. 

Jon has heard Tyrion and the Narnian kings and queens speak of Aslan at length, yet not a single one of them mentioned that he is a _lion_. Now he knows why. He would not have believed it, and to say he is a lion would not have been an adequate description anyway. Jon would have thought them mad. Now he understands Tyrion's utter certainty that finding the free folk was the right thing to do. Seeing Aslan, listening to him speak, gives Jon a sense of peace that he has not felt since… it is hard for him to say. When he stood at the top of the Wall with Ygritte, that was the closest to this feeling he has ever experienced, but it is not quite the same. "Where are the others?"

"Follow the river and you will find them," he says. "And then you must go north. Find the free folk, Jon Snow, and take them home. The Long Night will never come to Westeros again, thanks to you. They will be safe Beyond the Wall."

"I will, Your Grace." Aslan feels like the sort of … person? being? who should have a royal style. "But I didn't stop the Night King. That was Arya." Jon, in fact, feels he had been quite useless. He could not stop the Night King, he could not protect Bran, he could not get past Viserion. He did almost nothing to stop the Night King or the Army of the Dead.

"That is true," says Aslan. He shakes his mane, and the wind and rain abruptly stop. There is a ringing in Jon's ears where the howling of the wind had been. "But your sister only came to Winterfell because of you. You brought everyone together. Everyone was just where they needed to be, because you brought them there."

"Did I do the right thing?" Jon isn't asking about the Night King, now. "After the Night King and the Army of the Dead… did I do the right thing?" He had asked Tyrion, and Tyrion said _ask me in ten years._ It still haunts him, not knowing if he did the right thing, if he could have stopped Daenerys without killing her, or if he could have stopped her sooner, before she set fire to King's Landing and killed so many innocent people.

"I will not answer that question, Jon Snow." Aslan steps very close to him, close enough that Jon can feel the great lion's breath in his face. Jon thinks Aslan could swallow him whole or snap him in half with one bite, but he is not afraid. It is impossible to look into that great face and be afraid. "You have already answered it for yourself, even if you are not ready to look the answer in the face. Now go, and find your friends, and know that you do not go alone."

*****

Susan thinks she will never come up for air, that she'll be tumbling through the water until she passes out and that will be the end of her; then something strong latches onto her cloak and hauls her out of the water and onto the bank where she lies in the mud, coughing and sputtering. Her lungs burn as she coughs up water and then she can only just lie there, gasping for breath with the rain spattering her face. Then something large and heavy and smelling strongly of wet dog pushes at her insistently, over and over, until she sits up and opens her eyes.

"Ghost?" Jon's wolf licks her face and she coughs again, feeling the painful rattle of water in her lungs. "Where's Jon?" Of course the wolf cannot answer her. Her bow and quiver have washed up on the muddy bank, though all of the arrows are gone. With an effort, she pushes herself to her feet, her waterlogged boots squelching in the mud, and looks upstream. She cannot see the bridge. Whether that means that the rain is obscuring it or she's floated so far downstream that it's too far away to see, she doesn't know. She calls out for Jon, for Edmund, for anyone, but there is no answer.

There is only rain.

"Come on, boy," she says to Ghost, and begins to walk. Her whole body hurts, as if she's been dashed against endless rocks over and over, and her right ankle wobbles with each step. Her head aches fiercely. When she touches it her fingers come away red. But there is nothing else to be done but walk. Susan has no idea how far downstream she might be, but if she follows the river upstream, surely she will eventually come back to the bridge, and _someone_ will be there. She cannot think that the others would simply have left her, and it does not occur to her just then that Jon or any of the others might have died. It is an idea that is too horrible for her mind to allow her to consider.

After a time, the wind and rain suddenly stop. That helps a little. She is still soaked to the skin, but she is a little less cold if she keeps moving. Even when the sun goes down and the moon comes out, Susan keeps walking. She does not want to sit alone and in the cold and wet and dark. But eventually she cannot put one foot in front of the other again, not one more step. Every bone in her body is weary. She sits down on a fallen log and takes off her boots, tipping out some of the water, and wrings some of the wet from her skirts and cloak. This is not successful.

Ghost nudges at her leg, as if urging her to keep going. "I can't," she says. "I have to rest." Now that she isn't walking, she's much colder, and she shivers, but Ghost half-crawls into her lap. By now his fur is mostly dry, and he's warm, and she hugs him tightly. She's grateful for his warmth, but where is Jon? Jon goes no place that Ghost does not go, so if Ghost is with her, what has happened to him? It is her fault he was on the bridge with her when she fell. If only she had had the nerve to cross alone, like everyone else, it would only be her swept away and not Jon and Ghost as well. She promised Sansa she would look after Jon on this journey. She promised she would bring him back so that he could go home to Winterfell with his pardon, and now he has been washed away in a storm. _Men do stupid things for women,_ Sansa had said, and it was stupid of Jon to come back across the bridge for her. She cries a little into Ghost's fur, and then she dozes a little without meaning to, only waking when Ghost pulls away from her to dart like an arrow downstream, back the way they had come.

"Ghost?"

There is nothing but silence. Susan is much colder now that Ghost is gone. 

She hears a rustling in the bushes and she scrambles to her feet. If there is something lurking nearby, she has no way to defend herself. "Ghost?"

"Susan?" 

It's Jon, with Ghost at his heels, and Susan wants to cry with the relief of it. "Oh, good, it's you. Are you all right?"

"I've swallowed half the river," he says, and takes her hands. "You're bleeding." He touches her hair, his fingers gentle against her scalp, and she closes her eyes for a moment. "Just a scrape, I think. Are you hurt?"

"Not really." She is sore and tired and her head aches, but nothing is broken and for that, she is terribly lucky.

"Then let's keep walking. If we keep moving upstream, we'll find the others."

Susan sits down again to put on her boots. She is so incredibly tired she does not think she can take another step, but there is something about not being alone and lost any longer that gives her a second wind. Ghost runs ahead, looking like a true ghost in the moonlight, and Jon takes her hand as they walk. That steadies her a bit. She doesn't have the energy to talk; every bit of strength she has is spent putting one foot in front of the other and keeping her teeth from chattering with cold. 

When the bridge comes into sight, she wants to shout with joy; when she sees that Tormund is waiting on their side of it, with two horses tethered nearby and a roaring fire going, she starts to cry. Jon will likely think her a fool, but as she has already proved she is a fool by not being able to cross a bridge without needing her hand held, there is little to be done about that.

"Part of the bridge fell in the storm," Tormund explains, as Jon and Susan take off their cloaks and hang them from nearby trees to dry. "Lightning brought down a big tree upriver and it took out part of the bridge. That's why you fell. Edmund is leading them up the river until he finds a place where they can cross, and they'll meet us here. One of the Eagles was blown away in the storm. The other is helping them scout." 

The packs from the horses are piled nearby. Jon rummages in these for a minute and pulls out some spare clothes, all black. "We don't have your things," he says, "because your horse hadn't made it across, but it's too cold to sit in wet clothes. You'll freeze. You can wear these for now."

Susan is far too cold and wet and miserable to care very much if it's proper. She goes as far away as she can from the fire yet still be able to see what she's doing and turns her back to them, peeling off her wet dress and underskirt, corset and shift and pulling on the borrowed shirt and breeches. They're far too big for her but they're dry. She spreads her own clothes out as best she can to dry, and goes back to the fire, holding up the trousers with one hand as she walks so they don't fall down. 

"Looks like you're a man of the Night's Watch now," Tormund says, and Susan can't help but laugh. Even Jon smiles a little. She sits by the fire and they share some nuts and cheese and bread from their packs, passing a skin of wine back and forth, and then Susan picks out her wet hair with her fingers so it will dry. 

Jon gets up to put some more wood on the fire, and when he's done, he sits down very close to her. "I saw Aslan," he says quietly.

"You saw him?" Susan asks. "When? Just now?"

"He pulled me out of the river."

"Oh, Jon. What did he say?"

Jon is quiet for a moment, thinking. "He told me I could find you and Tormund by following the river, and that I had to find the free folk and take them back to Westeros. He said they'd be safe beyond the Wall, because the Long Night would never come again." He looks as though he has more to say, but he doesn't. Susan wonders at it.

"That horned fucker is gone for good?" Tormund says. "Good."

"Aye." Jon pokes at the fire with a stick. "We should get some rest so we can leave when Edmund and the others get to us."

Tormund offers to keep the first watch, for which Susan is grateful. She lies down as close to the fire as she dares and wishes her cloak wasn't damp so she could wrap up in it, but she knows a damp cloak would only make her colder. After a few moments, she hears Jon behind her. "It will be warmer if we sleep close, Your Grace."

"All right." 

Jon lies down beside her, his chest against her back, and for a moment he is very still. Then he eases his arm around her waist. "Is this all right?"

"Yes." His breath is warm against the back of her neck, seeming more so because her hair is still damp and cold. All of him is warm, in truth, and she's grateful that it's him at her back instead of the night air. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Ghost moving through the shadows beyond the fire, and then she hears him flop down behind Jon with a soft _whuff_ of breath. "I'm sorry for this," she says presently.

"For what?"

"For being too scared of heights to cross the bridge without needing my hand held," she says. "If you hadn't had to come back for me…"

His arm tightens a little around her waist. "Don't apologize for that."

"... it would have only been me that fell instead of you."

" _Someone_ would have fallen," Jon says. "Whoever was on the bridge when the tree hit it would have fallen whether you were afraid or not. Edmund was behind you, it might have been him, if not me." His voice softens. "Is that the thing you fear the most? Heights?"

"One of the things," she admits. Heights terrify her, but the thing she fears the most is something difficult to put into words. She could describe it as a fear of change, a fear of being left behind, but that does not quite describe all of it. It isn't just the change or the being left behind, but the fear of losing something good and never being able to have it again. Susan fears she would sound foolish if she tried to explain it, so she doesn't.

"Now that the thing you fear has happened, and you've lived to tell of it, perhaps you will be less afraid next time you find yourself at a height," Jon says softly.

"I hope so." Somehow she doubts it. "What about you? What do you fear the most?"

Jon is silent for so long that Susan thinks he has already fallen asleep. Between him and the fire, she is warm and comfortable, and she is so utterly weary and sore that she cannot keep her eyes open any longer. When he does speak, sleep has pulled her under, and she doesn't hear his words, only feels the low rumble of his voice in her ear.


	7. Pawn to Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah!" Peter says, grinning, when Sansa finally moves one of her pawns all the way across the checkered board into Tyrion's first rank. "Now you can 'promote' this pawn to anything you like, except a king. A queen, rook, bishop, or knight are your choices, but generally one promotes the pawn to a queen, as it's the most powerful piece in the game."

Jon wakes just after dawn. He doesn't immediately move, and there are two reasons for this: the first, that he is stiff and sore all over; and the second, that Susan is curled against him, sound asleep with her head resting on his chest. 

It is sweet, Jon thinks. _Too sweet._ Her long hair spills in a riot of curls and tangles over his arm, and he winds a bit of it round his finger, finding it soft as silk, dark as a raven's wing. _I am a man of the Night's Watch_ , he reminds himself, before he can entertain any other thoughts about her hair or the sweetness of her body curled against his. But _a man of the Night's Watch_ feels hollow in a way that it did not years ago, though, and does not stop him from thinking things the way it might have done. There is a gentleness to her that Jon is drawn to. He knows he should not be, but he is.

 _She is queen of a land I will never visit again, and I am a queenslayer and an oathbreaker._ That thought is more effective at putting more traitorous thoughts to rest than the reminder of his Night's Watch vows had been. He unwinds his fingers from her hair and carefully disentangles himself from her. She is sleeping deeply enough that she does not wake. Jon is grateful for that. He gets to his feet and retrieves their cloaks from where they were hung to dry the night before. Save for some lingering damp at the hem, they are dry enough, and he settles his around his shoulders and covers Susan with hers so she will stay warm. 

He goes into the woods nearby to make water and gather some firewood. When he comes back to their camp he adds some wood to the fire and joins Tormund, who is sitting a little way away from the fire, skinning one of several freshly caught rabbits.

"They're the regular kind," Tormund assures him. "Not the talking ones. Your wolf came back with one in his mouth. I think he knows the difference."

"I don't think the talking ones live past the river," Jon says, taking up his own knife and skinning another carcass. "And they're much bigger. " Jon thinks he has learned enough about the Narnians to know the difference, by now.

"The girl taught you that?"

It takes Jon a moment to realize that by _the girl_ , Tormund means Susan. "Yes," he says. "And her brother." 

"You like that girl." 

There is little point in denying it; avoiding the subject will only make Tormund more persistent about it, he's learned. "It doesn't matter," Jon says, keeping his eyes on his work. 

"Are you going to tell me some shit about your vows, that you're a crow again so you can't fuck a woman?" Tormund scoffs. "You're a pretty man. She's a pretty woman. Fuck your vows."

"She's a queen."

"That didn't stop you before," Tormund says, shrugging. 

"That was different. I wasn't in the Night's Watch then." And he was a king.

Tormund waves his knife around, gesturing. "Look around you, little crow. Do you see your wall anywhere? Do you see your Night's Watch anywhere? Do you see a castle full of crows? Look me in the eye and tell me when we left Castle Black that you actually meant to go back there, ever again."

Jon looks at Tormund, ready to tell him exactly that. But he can't, and he turns back to his work, grumbling in disgust at himself. 

"Har! I knew it." Tormund claps Jon on the back and returns to his grisly business. 

"She's a queen," Jon says again. He keeps his voice low; Susan is still asleep, he thinks, but he doesn't want his words heard. "And this isn't my world. When we find the rest of the free folk, we're leaving. Even if I wasn't a man of the Night's Watch, she wouldn't … it's no place for a lady, beyond the Wall."

"Did you _ask_ her?"

Jon makes another noise of disgust. "No." That isn't how things are done.

"You could live at Winterfell, with your sister. She came all this way to bring you home."

That idea is even worse. "There is room for only one queen at Winterfell," Jon says. Sansa is still establishing her own rule in the North. Jon's presence would be incendiary. No, he can never live at Winterfell again. Visit, later, perhaps. But not live. Tormund isn't among those who know about Rhaegar and Lyanna, though, so Jon doesn't explain this.

Tormund chuckles and puts the rabbits on spits to cook over the fire. "You like that girl," he says. "The rest doesn't matter."

Jon wishes it were that simple.

*****

Susan wakes to the smell of roasted meat. Someone (she suspects it was Jon) has covered her with her cloak and it makes a nice little pocket of warmth from which she doesn't want to move, but she's slept on her arm wrongly and it's tingling so she has little choice. When she sits up, though, she almost wishes she hadn't; her whole body is stiff and sore. She feels the river must have bashed her against every single rock along the way before Ghost dragged her out of it, but she thinks she would feel far worse if she hadn't slept with Jon's warmth at her back last night.

She pulls her cloak tightly around her and goes to pick up her clothes from where she'd hung them to dry, holding up her borrowed breeches as she walks to keep them from falling down. Her clothes are dry, if not especially clean. Susan decides they will do. She goes a little further into the woods to change back into her own clothes and when she does, she sees her legs and arms are splotched with bruises, thanks to the rocks in the river. That explains how terribly sore she is. She untangles her hair with her fingers as best she can and twists it into a braid. Susan doesn't quite feel herself, but it will have to do.

When she rejoins Jon and Tormund, Jon is checking to see if the meat is done. It must not be quite yet, as he leaves it over the fire to cook a bit longer. "Don't worry, Your Grace," he says. "They're ordinary rabbits."

"Good." She hadn't thought otherwise. Jon and the free folk seemed to understand the gravity of what happened when it was explained to them, and she thought it unlikely they'd repeat their mistake. "I don't think I've ever been so hungry. What I wouldn't give for a nice big cup of coffee just now, with cream and plenty of sugar." There is a kettle and a packet of ground beans with the provisions and gear, but all of those provisions are on the pack horses which are with Edmund and the others on the other side of the river.

"We don't have that in Westeros," Jon says. "I'd never heard of it before we came here."

"Oh, it truly is the best, especially when one is tired," Susan says. "We shall have to send some back with you to Westeros when you leave. We don't grow it here in Narnia, it isn't warm enough, I think. Coffee and chocolate are two of the things we trade for with Calormen, along with tea and silk and spices."

"You still have trade relations with them, then?" Jon asks. "Even after…"

"After their prince tried to steal me?" Susan finishes for him. "Yes. His father is very keen on maintaining good relations with us. He claims he had no foreknowledge of his son's attack on Anvard."

"Ah, he wanted to _steal_ you," Tormund says, nodding as if he understands. "This prince sounds like a clever man. I imagine many men have tried to steal you, little queen."

"Not like _that_. Her Grace wouldn't marry the foreign prince, so he brought his army to take her by force." Jon says to Tormund, scowling, before Susan can respond, and there is a faint flush on his cheeks. "With the free folk," he explains to Susan, "if a man wants to… er, take a woman for his wife, he has to steal her. She's supposed to fight him if he does, but if he wins, he gets to keep her."

Susan is horrified. She cannot imagine a people who would just steal a woman simply because they want her, without any say in whether she wants to be stolen or not. "What if she doesn't _want_ to be stolen? Or what if the man who steals her is terrible? Or she'd rather be with someone else?" 

Tormund shrugs. "Then she can kill him before he steals her, if she can, or chop off his cock or slit his throat in his sleep later. If she could beat him, he wouldn't be a good husband anyway. He'd give her sickly weak children." He nods at Jon. "Little crow here stole a girl once."

"I did not _steal_ her," Jon protests.

"Yes you did," Tormund says. "Ah, Ygritte. Kissed by fire. If I was ten years younger, I would've stolen her myself."

"I didn't steal her," Jon says again. "Not on purpose, anyway."

Susan tries to picture Jon Snow stealing a woman and although she has a lively imagination, it is not so lively as to extend to _that_. Jon does not seem like the sort to take a woman by force. Then again, he does not seem like a murderer, either. Thankfully she is spared further deliberations over whether Jon Snow did or did not steal a girl due to the arrival of Swiftalon, one of the Eagles accompanying their party as scouts and messengers. 

"My apologies, Your Majesty," he says. His feathers are tousled and spattered with mud, but he bows gracefully for all that. "I was blown away in the storm, and it took me some time to find you again."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, Your Majesty. Missing a few feathers, but no real harm done."

"I'm glad to hear it. Come and rest yourself by the fire, and then I must ask you to fly back to Cair Paravel, if you can, and tell my brother the High King what has happened. Edmund and the rest of the party could not cross the bridge, so they've had to go further up to find somewhere to cross the river. It might delay us some time. If we are not here when you return, you know the direction we plan to travel."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Swiftalon sits with them by the fire for a time, sharing their breakfast of rabbit cooked over the fire, some dried fruit and cheese. Then he flies south for Cair Paravel.

Now there is little to do but wait for the arrival for the rest of their party.

*****

The messenger arrives just after Sansa sits down to dinner with Tyrion, Peter, and Lucy in the small hall. It startles her when the Eagle flies right into the hall just as the soup is served and perches on the back of an empty chair; seeing her surprise, the Eagle apologizes to her before delivering his news.

"Your Majesties, my lord," he says, bowing gracefully, "I've been sent to tell you the expedition north has been delayed crossing the bridge at the River Shribble. Part of the bridge collapsed in the storm and Queen Susan, Jon Snow, and the wolf were washed down the river."

"Are they all right?" Sansa blurts, before she can stop herself. 

"Yes, Your Majesty," says the Eagle. "All is well. Queen Susan, Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane, and the wolf are all safely across the river now, but the rest of the party could not cross before the bridge fell. King Edmund has taken them upriver to find another crossing; Queen Susan expects it to add another few days to their journey and bids you not to worry for it."

"So Jon is all right?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I spoke with him myself. He is unharmed and in good spirits."

"Thank you, Swiftalon," says Peter. "Please rest yourself before you return." The Eagle bows again and flies out of the hall. "Well. I'm glad we've had news, and glad that all is well."

"Jon Snow has faced far worse than a collapsing bridge and lived to tell about it," says Tyrion, as a servant refills his goblet of wine.

"I'm sure he is well," Lucy reassures her. "If anything was amiss, our messenger would have said. But I know it is one thing to say _worry not_ and another to actually stop worrying. It is difficult not to worry about our brothers," she adds, with a glance at Peter. "They so often act without thinking. That is why it is good that my sister has gone along. She is the most sensible of us."

There is a salad of spring greens topped with berries and nuts then, followed by honeyed ham, sweet carrots, and turnips mashed with butter. Sansa has not yet had a meal at Cair Paravel that she did not like, nor Tyrion either, though it seems he is just as pleased with the wine as he is the food.

"Your Majesty, I wondered if you and Lord Tyrion might join Lucy and me for a game of chess after dinner," Peter says as the dessert is served (it is only one dessert tonight, but Sansa cannot be disappointed as it is the lemon tarts she so enjoyed a few nights ago).

"Chess?" Sansa asks. "I've not heard of this game."

"It is a game of strategy, for two players," says Lucy. "There is a board, eight squares by eight in a checkerboard pattern, with each player having sixteen pieces, one of which is called a king. The objective is to 'checkmate' your opponent's king."

"Ah," says Tyrion. "It sounds like _cyvasse_." Not quite the same, they soon discover, as each game is described. Cyvasse has more kinds of pieces than chess, and chess has no elephants or dragons; in chess the board is always the same, but players of cyvasse set up their boards behind a screen. But the rules are similar enough that Sansa thinks Tyrion will pick it up quickly. 

So after dinner, the four of them retire to the library, where there is a chess board with pieces of gold and ebony. Peter explains the ways that each type of piece can move--kings with the least freedom of movement, queens with the most--then suggests for this first game, he and Sansa play together against Tyrion and Lucy, so that Peter and Lucy might teach them the rules. "It's better to learn as you play, rather than sit and listen to someone read the rules off to you and try to keep it all in your head," he says.

Tyrion picks up on the way of the game rather quickly, as Sansa suspected he would. Sansa proves less adept, though it is not for lack of effort on the part of her partner. In truth Peter is quite solicitous. He takes the time to explain to her each potential move they might make at first, warning her before she can make a move that might put an important piece in danger or suggesting an alternative that might sacrifice a less important piece in order to leave her king better defended. Then he sits back and lets her try it on her own, only offering his advice when asked. Tyrion soon accumulates a small pile of her pieces but Sansa tries not to let it rattle her, despite the fact that the pile she's made of _his_ pieces is significantly smaller.

"Ah!" Peter says, grinning, when Sansa finally moves one of her pawns all the way across the checkered board into Tyrion's first rank. "Now you can 'promote' this pawn to anything you like, except a king. A queen, rook, bishop, or knight are your choices, but generally one promotes the pawn to a queen, as it's the most powerful piece in the game."

This is a rule Sansa finds particularly satisfying. The simple pawn navigated among all of the other pieces which could have captured it, and became a much more powerful piece in the process. Sansa felt like a pawn for so much of her life, small and insignificant, trying to make her way around so many that would have knocked her off the board of her life. For a moment, she sees the faces of some of them as if they are pieces on the board--the king Joffrey, the queen Cersei, Littlefinger as a bishop, Ramsay as a rook--and she is the pawn who traveled across the board to become a queen, while the other pieces have long been knocked aside.

"Here," says Lucy, pressing something into her hand. It is a miniature gilt crown, barely wide enough that it could serve as a ring upon Sansa's smallest finger, if she liked. "You can use it to crown your pawn. Most people just use another piece instead, but I had some little crowns made to turn them into queens as that's ever so much more fun." 

Sansa places the tiny crown onto the smooth round "head" of the pawn and smiles. "Well done, little pawn." She's so pleased by this achievement that on subsequent turns she doesn't notice Tyrion sneaking a piece in to capture her original queen until it is too late, but by then it's evident Tyrion is going to win this game anyway. A few moves later, she tips over her king and concedes defeat, although Lucy and Peter both declare it a valiant attempt at their very first game.

Tyrion lingers over the board for a time, asking Lucy and Peter questions of strategy and tactics, and when he has satisfied his curiosity he climbs down from his chair and bids them good night. Lucy excuses herself not long afterward, leaving Sansa and Peter alone in the library. Peter takes up a carved wooden case and begins putting away the chess pieces, each one having its own snug little velvet-lined compartment. "I take it cyvasse has no rule about promoting pawns," he says. "I believe Lord Tyrion said the _rabble_ were the equivalent piece in your game."

"I'm not sure if it does," Sansa admits. "Tyrion is more of an expert in the game than I am. But I do like the rule." She picks up the little pawn with its gilt crown. 

"Forgive me for saying, Queen Sansa, but you seem to have an affinity for this little pawn made a queen."

"I do," she admits. "Which I suppose sounds rather foolish."

"Not at all." Peter finishes putting away the gold pieces, save for the pawn Sansa's holding, and starts on the ebony ones. "I've not spoken to your brother or Lord Tyrion at great length, but I understand your family was not always kings or queens of the north?"

"Hundreds of years ago, the Starks were the kings of winter," Sansa says. "Until the north became part of the Seven Kingdoms. But after my father was murdered, the north declared its independence from the Iron Throne, and my brother Robb was crowned King in the North. After his murder, there were those who tried to use me to gain control of the north… but they failed." She puts the little piece on the table. "Jon was king in the north for a time, but he gave it up." She does not feel the need to discuss the reasons why with the Narnians, especially as Jon seems reluctant to speak of any of it to them. "Our younger brother Bran was chosen as king in the south, of what used to be the Seven Kingdoms, but the north chose to remain independent."

Peter frowns in thought. "Why would you want to be independent, if your brother sits the throne?" he asks. "Surely he would be sensitive to the interests of the north?"

"Bran would be, I think." She is not entirely sure, though; she thinks Bran will be a good king, but Bran will not always be king. "The leader of the Six Kingdoms will no longer be decided by birth, but by the choice of the nobles," she explains. "It is one reason my brother was chosen. He cannot father children, as he was injured in a terrible fall as a child. So there's no guarantee that whoever succeeds him will have the north's interests at heart. We've fought too long and too hard to ever kneel to a southron king again. Even my brother."

"Who will your crown pass to after you?" Peter asks. 

"I could ask the same of you," Sansa says. There are four of them ruling together and none of them are married, even though Sansa suspects that Peter and Susan, at least, would have been married off long ago if they lived in Westeros. 

Peter laughs softly. "You've caught me there," he says. "We are none of us wed, though Susan nearly came to it some weeks ago with the crown prince of Calormen, but she rejected his suit. Edmund says she has the right of it; the prince was rather terrible once one got to know him."

"Then she's better off rid of him." Sansa knows well what that is like, better than most. 

"It would have made a stronger alliance," Peter admits, "which is important for us. Narnia is a small country surrounded by larger countries, and the larger ones look at us with greedy eyes. But I would not want my sister to marry a brute for the sake of an alliance, and Calormen has other reasons to want to stay on our good side. In truth, I ought to take a wife myself, but it seems rather… well. I expect you know what I mean. In our positions, one cannot just marry someone for love but must think about how it joins one land to another for ages to come. Still, one would want someone one could stand to live with, at least, even if one were not in love, for a lifetime seems far too long to spend with another person if you only make each other miserable."

 _Yes, one would want a person one could stand to live with_ , Sansa thinks. "You have a great many notions about marriage, for someone who is unmarried," she says, only teasing a little.

"When I do marry, I expect to find a great many of my notions are utter rubbish," Peter says, with a soft chuckle at himself. "And you? What notions do you have?"

She picks up the little pawn and puts it back in the case. "I've been married twice, and neither time to a man of my choosing, or even of my family's choosing. My first husband was as much a pawn as I was; the second was cruel. If I ever wed again, it will be to someone _I_ choose." But she will have to choose, some day, or the Stark line ends with her, and she does not like to think on it. The alternative is naming someone her heir, or letting the north choose their own leader as the other kingdoms chose Bran. Sansa would not be _opposed_ to those options if someone else could carry on the Stark name, but there is no one. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

"I am sorry that you never got to choose," Peter says gravely. 

Sansa is not sure how to respond to that. It is on her tongue to tell him she doesn't need or want his pity, but she thinks there is no pity in his tone, only genuine sympathy. She decides to take his words on their face. "No one can make me wed now, if I don't want to," she says. "I am no longer anyone's pawn."

"No," says Peter. "You are a queen."

And the queen is the most powerful piece on the board.

 

*****

There is only so much waiting a person can take, Susan thinks. Especially when there is little else to keep one's mind occupied. They have eaten and packed their gear in hopes of a quick departure when Edmund and the rest of their party arrives, but as the hours pass and the shadows lengthen, Susan wonders if they will even make it before sundown. 

"How long do you think it will take for them to find a way across the river?" Jon asks. 

"No more than a day, I thought," says Susan. "Perhaps the rains have made the crossing more difficult than usual."

"Perhaps."

Susan glances at Torumund, asleep under his furs a few yards away. He'd kept watch for Jon and Susan through the night, so he's catching a bit of sleep now, while there is nothing to do but wait. "I hope you won't think me impertinent for saying so, but I've never met anyone quite like your friend Tormund," she says.

Jon laughs. "Nor I," he says. "He is a great bag of wind and lies, most times, but I've not fought beside a man more fierce or loyal."

"He seems a good friend."

"He wasn't always," Jon admits. "There was a time I think he would as soon gut me than look at me. Thankfully that's in the past."

"How does one get a man like Tormund Giantsbane to turn from enemy to friend?"

"It is a long story."

"We have nothing to do but sit and wait," Susan points out. "You can tell me this long story, or we can sit and watch the grass grow. I know which of these will make the time seem to pass more quickly. I'd hear your story, if you'd tell it, Jon Snow."

"All right." He doesn't tell his story immediately, though. First he adds more wood to the fire, then fetches the last of their wineskins before sitting down beside her again. He offers her the skin, then takes a sip himself before beginning his story.

It _is_ a long story, in truth. He tells her of the Night's Watch, of what it is and why he joined, of Castle Black and the Wall and what it was for, and why he'd gone beyond it with some of the Night's Watch for the first time. He tells her of the girl Ygritte whom Tormund had mentioned earlier, and of a man named Qhorin Halfhand; of how he'd tried and failed to kill Ygritte and how he'd had to kill Qhorin Halfhand so that the free folk, including Tormund and a man named Mance Rayder, would accept him as a deserter from the Night's Watch. ( _Like a spy_ , Susan thinks.) 

Jon tells her a little of his time with the free folk, of living with them and climbing the Wall with them, then turning on them to return to Castle Black, and then of a great battle with the free folk in which Ygritte, among many others, died. He tells her how he was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and how Tormund was his prisoner, and then, after Jon freed him, became his friend.

The shadows lengthen and the moon rises, the stars come out and still Jon talks, his voice low. Ghost lopes out of the shadows, coming to sit beside him, and Jon strokes the wolf's fur as he talks. Susan thinks he is not used to talking so much at once; he speaks the way a man does if he prefers to act, rather than speak. He tells her of battles he has fought with Tormund at his back, at a place called Hardhome against the Night King and his undead ice creatures, and twice at Winterfell: first against a man Sansa was made to marry, a man who sounds even worse than Rabadash had been, and then against the undead ice creatures. 

When Jon finishes speaking of these battles he sighs and takes a long drink from the wine skin. He offers it to Susan again, but she shakes her head a little. All of this fighting, and she knows there must be still more, for he's said nothing about the incident which Sansa told her about, of the assassination of the last heir of the old ruling family of Westeros. She feels there is so much missing from his story, yet she doesn't press it; if he wants to tell it, he will, and if not, that is his right. Some stories are too painful to tell. "I quite see why you trust him now," Susan says. "I expect when you've fought with someone for so long, you trust them in a way you can't quite trust anyone else."

"Aye."

"And I see why you feel so responsible for what happens to the free folk." 

"I do," he says. "The ones I brought here, and the ones Aslan said came here years ago trying to escape the Night King. Most of Westeros calls them _wildlings_ and acts like they're no better than savages, but they're just people. There's some bad among them and some good, just like anyone else, but mostly they want to go on living their lives."

"Just like anyone else."

Jon nods and stretches his legs out toward the fire. He seems the sort of person who finds too much talking tiresome, but for all that, he seems relieved to have told the story. "They deserve to go home," he says.

"So do you," Susan says quietly. "I hope… I hope that one day soon you are able to just live quietly, if you like, and not have to fight any more, whether it be men or monsters."

"I'm tired of fighting," Jon admits, his voice soft.

"You have every right to be." She glances at him for a moment and wonders what it would be like if Jon didn't return to Westeros, if he stayed here in Narnia. What would it be like to be with a man like Jon Snow? She has never met anyone like him. She thinks about how he spoke as the leader of the free folk when he was not, tried to accept responsibility for what they'd done even though he had no part in it, how he helped her cross the bridge without mocking her fear or dismissing it as foolish, and how he'd slept close to keep her warm. Despite having started as her prisoner, he has been far kinder and gentler to her than the man she almost married ever was.

But she is being foolish. When Jon speaks of returning to "beyond the Wall," it's the closest to happy that she ever sees from him. He would not like to stay here in Narnia, she thinks, with the constraints of palace life in a small country that is often under threat from its larger neighbors, away from his sister who loves him and his friend Tormund, who also clearly loves him under all his crudeness and bluster. And though Sansa has expressed a desire to pardon him, Jon does not seem like the sort of man who would let himself accept it, and his vows to the Night's Watch present some problems.

"You're very kind, Your Grace," he says.

She hasn't had the heart to tell the Westerosi, especially Jon, that the style in Narnia is _Your Majesty_ rather than _Your Grace_ (though she thinks _Your Grace_ is quite elegant and she rather likes it). "You should just call me Susan," she says. " _Your Grace_ is a mouthful."

"It wouldn't be… appropriate."

"We fell off a bridge together and lived to tell about it," she reminds him, with a gentle nudge of her elbow. "I think that makes an allowance for a certain degree of familiarity."

"That's true." Jon ducks his head, smiling a little in a way that softens the somber, serious lines of his face and makes him look quite different. "All right. Susan it is."

She likes the way his name sounds in his voice, his accent roughing it a little round the edges and making it a bit less boring and plain. Two simple syllables, yet it makes her feel warm inside to hear him say them.

That warmth quickly dissipates when he abruptly turns to look out into the darkness with a frown; at the same time, Ghost's ear perks up and he turns to look in the same direction as Jon. "Do you hear that?" he says.

"Hear what?"

"Listen." Jon gets to his feet, quick and silent, his hand on his sword, and it's only then that Susan hears it too, a distant pounding of hoofbeats, the sound of horses at full gallop. Their own horses hear it too, now, and they're restless, whickering nervously where they're tethered. "Tormund!" His friend wakes almost instantly at the sound of his name, and in a blink of an eye he's at Jon's side, sword in hand. 

The pounding grows louder and a few moments later, two riderless horses burst from the shadows, lathered and nearly spent, almost crashing into the thicket of trees behind them before they skitter almost to a stop and Jon and Tormund catch them as they wheel around and make to bolt away again. Susan realizes they are some of _their_ horses, ones that should have been with Edmund's party. Two more horses follow, but these have riders: Sir Brienne the lady knight, and Lord Peridan, one of the Narnians who had been with Edmund. Of Edmund, the rest of the Narnians, or the free folk, there is no sign. Susan feels her stomach drop when she realizes Edmund is not there.

"His Majesty has been captured," says Lord Peridan, reining in his horse. His cloak is torn and there is a red patch blooming on the arm of his tunic, but he seems not to notice. "We must go after him."


	8. The Crimson Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In those few moments, Susan has enough time to think about just how high up they really are. When she was moving, and her eyes firmly fixed on the solidness of the tower wall, it was easy to pretend she was on the ground or very close to it, but now that she has stopped and is waiting for Jewel to return, she is all too aware of how very high up they are and how much the wind is whipping at her face. _Do not look down_ , Susan tells herself firmly. _You fell from a great height before and you lived to tell of it. Do not be afraid._ It only helps a little, but it is better than nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not put an archive warning on this fic because it did not involve a POV character, but FYI: there is an allusion to some non-consensual things happening off-screen with a non-POV character. I've left it vague to interpret how you like, but if that is something that bothers you, please be careful with this chapter.
> 
> Thanks to all who have read and commented! I really appreciate your feedback. It means a lot.

Jon is able to convince Susan and Lord Peridan that a midnight gallop across the country on spent horses is foolhardy, so they take a bit of time for Brienne to tell the story and to make a plan while the horses rest and Susan binds the wound to Lord Peridan's arm. 

"We made camp on the other side of the river after the bridge fell," Brienne says, "and woke early to travel upriver to look for a place to cross. We found a place shallow enough to make a safe crossing late in the afternoon, and after crossing, we were met by a woman riding from the west, dressed in crimson silk and a crown of silver, riding a horse as black as night."

"She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen," Lord Peridan says, with an apologetic glance at Susan. "Even moreso than Your Majesty or Her Majesty Queen Lucy, meaning no offense to either you, of course."

"You've given no offense, Lord Peridan," Susan says. "Though I'm not sure what her beauty has to do with this story."

"I didn't think her appearance out of the ordinary in any way," Brienne says, "though I wasn't thinking about it very much at the time. I was thinking how strange it was that a woman, especially one styling herself a queen, would be riding alone through this stretch of country, not particularly dressed for the weather or carrying any provisions, but the men…"

"It was some sort of enchantment." Lord Peridan looks uneasy at this admission. "I thought nothing of a woman riding alone and not suitably dressed for the weather. I only thought of how beautiful she was, how listening to her voice was like listening to the most haunting melody, and that I simply had to talk to her. I am sorry to say that I remember little of what she actually said, only that I believed it all, and felt our purpose in that moment was to do whatever she suggested."

Brienne nods. "All of the men, including King Edmund, began to behave very strangely. King Edmund said that it was our duty to escort this queen back to her castle, that finding the rest of you and the free folk in the north could wait, and the rest of the men agreed. When I said that we really must rejoin the three of you, the woman commanded them to silence me. She seemed annoyed that there was a woman in the party--perhaps she hadn't realized I was a woman at first, I don't know. In any case, it was eight on one, so I thought it best to flee."

"I was the closest to Ser Brienne," Peridan says, nodding to his injured arm, "and she struck me a glancing blow with her sword as she fled. Lucky she did, too; the pain of the blow broke the enchantment, and I saw at once what had happened--that the woman's appearance and the sound of her voice and my attraction to her were all an illusion. We fled and they pursued us for a time, then broke off. I suppose the woman felt we were not worth the trouble to capture when there were seven still in her grasp."

Tormund looks at Jon. "Do you think it's one of those red priests, come through to this world? Like that red woman that brought you back?"

Jon shakes his head, cutting off Tormund's line of thought before he can go further with it. He doesn't want to speak of his death with the Narnians. "I don't think so," he says. "Melisandre had her magic, whatever she got from the Lord of Light, but nothing like this. Nothing that seemed to only enchant men and not women." At least, not to Jon's knowledge. He looks at Susan. "Have you heard of anything like this before?"

"No," she says. "Not exactly like this, anyway. Though we have met women with strong magic before. The White Witch, Jadis, brought the Hundred Year Winter to Narnia, and she had her own… enchantments. Edmund was a victim of her schemes then. But I've never heard of this woman. Lord Peridan, you mentioned a castle?"

Peridan nods. "Yes, Your Majesty. She wanted us to return to her castle with her." He has a map in his saddlebags; he produces it now, and spreads it out close enough to the fire that it can be read easily. "It's possible that she has taken up residence in the old castle of the White Witch," he says, indicating the location on the map, just on the border of Narnia and Ettinsmoor, to the west of a mountain range. "She came in from the west, so it's logical she came from there."

"It's as good a place as any to look," Susan says. "We've had no intelligence about any other castles being built anywhere. Of course, we've had no intelligence about the White Witch's old castle being occupied, but this could be a recent development--which it could be, given she was traveling alone. Where is the other Eagle? We sent Swiftalon with a message to Cair Paravel, but where is Thorntail?"

"We sent her to Cair Paravel as well, Your Majesty," says Peridan. "After we escaped, we thought it best the High King know that King Edmund was taken by this Crimson Queen."

"My brother will bring every bit of our force to retrieve Edmund," Susan says, "but I don't think that's wise."

"No, I agree," says Jon. "Especially if your armies are mostly men." Jon has seen some female Centaurs and Fauns among the guards at Cair Paravel, but it seems that most of the forces Jon has seen, such as the Centaurs that accompanied them across Narnia, are male. "We don't know enough about her magic to know whether it only works on male humans, or if any Narnians are susceptible as long as they are male. But if your brother brings his full force north, she could easily turn them, and then there will be no stopping her. We do know that Ser Brienne was unaffected, and Lord Peridan's injury broke his enchantment."

"We don't know if her magic will work on a man a second time, after an injury," Susan points out. "Lord Peridan fled as soon as he realized her spell was broken. If he had hesitated, she could have lured him in again."

"Very true," says Peridan. "And we do not know how much one must be injured to break the enchantment. All I know is that it felt as though the pain cleared my head, as if lifting a fog. That sword of yours is wickedly sharp, Ser Brienne. You nearly took off my arm without even trying."

"That wasn't the sword," Tormund says with a grin. "It was the woman who swung it."

"Then it will have to be Ser Brienne and me that rescue Edmund and the others," Susan says.

There is a long moment of uneasy silence at her suggestion. Jon does not think anyone is in favor of it, except possibly Brienne; Peridan does not object, but Jon thinks it is less about approving the plan and more about not wanting to openly contradict his queen. If it had been Ygritte that made the suggestion, or even Daenerys, Jon would not object, but Susan is not a spearwife or a dragonrider. "Do you have a weapon, Your Grace?"

She seems confused by his choice to call her _Your Grace_ when he had agreed to call her _Susan_ not even an hour ago, but he will have to leave that for another time. He doesn't want to seem as if he's disrespecting her when questioning her in front of one of her lords. "All of my arrows were lost in the river," she says. "But it doesn't matter, as none of you can enter the castle and risk being near her. If you are taken by this enchantment, you will just be more people in need of rescue. And I know the castle, somewhat, if indeed she has taken up residence in the White Witch's castle. It's been years but Lucy and I went there with Aslan, long ago."

Peridan gets up and goes to the packs taken from one of the horses that came back with them, bringing back a bundle, that when unwrapped, reveals enough arrows to fill her quiver again. "It may not be enough," he says, "but some is better than none, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Lord Peridan." She turns her attention back to the map. "It would be fastest to continue along this side of the mountains," she says, drawing her finger along the edge of the mountain range that runs along the border of Narnia and Ettinsmoor. 

"You said that Ettinsmoor was enemy territory, Your Grace," Jon says. 

"The alternative is going back across the river and going around the mountains to the south," Susan says. "Which would add several days to our journey that we can ill afford. Or we could go through the mountains."

"I do not advise going through the mountains," Peridan says. "In early spring the snow will still be thick and the winds bitter in the mountains. The going will be even slower than going south."

"If we continue this way, we may yet catch them before they reach her castle," Brienne suggests. "It's unlikely, but there's a chance."

"Then we'll stay north of the mountains," Susan decides. "We should all get a little rest. We'll leave before dawn."

*****

The maid wakes her before it's even light out, and Sansa rubs her eyes blearily. "Daisis? Is something wrong?"

"His Majesty the High King wishes to speak with you," says the maid. "There has been another messenger from the northern expedition. He's just outside."

It would not be good news, Sansa thinks, if Peter has the maid wake her at this hour instead of waiting until the morning. "All right. Please help me dress, and then you can show him in." Whatever the news is, she doesn't want to hear it in her shift. Daisis helps her dress and twists her hair into a simple bun, and then she opens the door for Peter.

The High King of Narnia looks nothing so much as a frightened older brother just now, rather than a king, in rumpled breeches with his shirt askew at the neck as if he'd pulled it on with little thought or care. "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour," he says, "but there's been news."

"Jon?"

"Unharmed, as far as I know, as are my sister, Ser Brienne, Lord Peridan, and Tormund Giantsbane. But my brother, the rest of the Narnians, and the free folk of the expedition have been captured by a witch. An enchantress. She put a spell on the men of the party and ordered them to kill Ser Brienne, but she was able to escape."

"Oh no… I'm sorry, Peter."

"I'm assembling an army now. I'm going north to find my brother and bring him home."

Sansa cannot blame him for the impluse, but… "A spell?" she asks. "A spell that only affected the men, not Ser Brienne?" 

"Yes."

"Then you shouldn't go," she says. "If it's that sort of magic… I've never heard of such a thing, but if it only affects men and not women, then you cannot go, and you cannot send an army of men. You will only give her more of what she wants. Ser Brienne is unharmed?"

"As far as I know."

"I owe her my life," Sansa says. "She's a skilled warrior and one of the bravest people I know. She's the commander of my brother's Kingsguard. You have to trust that she'll bring Edmund back to you. And your sister Susan? Doesn't she have some skill with the bow?"

"She's the best shot in all of Narnia," Peter allows. "But she doesn't like to fight."

"I don't know your sister very well, but I have a feeling if your brother's life was at stake, she would get past her dislike of fighting very quickly," Sansa says. Sansa has no skill with any weapons, but when it came to it, she and Tyrion did what they could in the crypts when the bones of long-dead Starks rose from their graves. Desperation can give people a strength they never knew they had. "What about your sister Lucy?"

"She's almost as good as Susan with a bow," Peter admits. "And has a better head for battle."

"Then let _her_ take a force north," Sansa suggests. "No men." She has seen female Centaurs and Fauns among the palace guard. Surely there must be others in their ranks. "Any men you send will only become fodder for her side and make it more difficult to defeat her, if she really can enchant only men and not women." 

"It does not feel right, sending my sisters into battle while I sit here and do nothing," Peter says. "But it seems I have no choice." 

 

*****

The Eagle Swiftalon catches up with them by midday, and Thorntail that evening, bringing news that Queen Lucy has gathered a small force and will meet them at the western edge of the Ettinsmoor mountains as soon as they can. It's welcome news for Susan, who worried that Peter would impulsively charge north with an army that would be turned against them by the witch's magic. It seems Lucy's good sense has prevailed. Swiftalon flies ahead of them to scout and returns with the news that it seems the woman in crimson is heading toward the old castle of the White Witch, as they had suspected. 

Susan is tempted to ride ahead with Sir Brienne and try to ambush them before they reach the castle, where the witch might settle inside, possibly necessitating a siege to flush her out. When she suggests this to Jon, he reminds her that she and Brienne would be two against seven. 

"I don't say this to question your skill," he says, "and Brienne of Tarth is one of the best swords I know, but one sword and one bow against seven swords is not good odds. That's if she doesn't pick up more men along the way somehow. And we don't know what other magic she has that she could use against you. If your sister wasn't on the way with reinforcements, I'd say risk it. But you know she's coming, so be patient." 

It frustrates Susan, even though she knows he is right. Better to wait for Lucy and her army and take the witch with better odds. Her frustration makes her push their travel further each day than she might have otherwise, and it keeps her from sleeping when she finally calls a halt each evening. 

The arrival of some of Lucy's forces does a great deal to ease her mind, because she finally feels as though they are _doing_ something. Ten Griffins join them just before they reach the western end of the mountain range. Each Griffin carries two Mice on her back.

"Queen Lucy sent us ahead for reconnaissance while you wait for her ground forces," explains Rainclaw, the captain of the Griffins. "Tonight, we are to fly the Mice into the shadow of the castle so that they may sneak inside and learn more about the enemy--how her magic works, where His Majesty and the rest of the men are being kept, and the layout of the castle and its defenses."

"An excellent strategy," Jon says.

"If it comes to a siege or a pitched battle, the Griffins can fight from the air," Susan explains. "They're fast and strong and are particularly good at dropping boulders on the enemy lines to break up a formation. I hope it won't come to that, though. If she has any forces at all, they are likely men under her enchantment and not soldiers in their right minds willingly fighting for her." She has little taste for battles as it is, but fighting people who aren't even fighting by choice truly turns her stomach. She is under no delusions that they will be able to simply walk into the witch's castle and ask nicely for Edmund and the others to be returned.

In the early evening, the Griffins depart, carrying the Mice to the old castle of the White Witch, and return just after sunrise. The Mice create a map of the castle on the back of one of the maps of Narnia, running this way and that over the parchment arguing amongst themselves. "No, there were six towers, not five," says one, and "there were two giants at the gate," says another, but it doesn't take them long to get the lay of the land on paper. The castle is in poor repair, indicating that the Crimson Queen has only been in residence a short time, and it was easy for the Mice to get inside where the walls were crumbling. Her force is still small, which is why none of the Narnian intelligence has picked up on her presence before now; besides Edmund and the other seven Narnians and free folk of their party, there are only about twenty other human men (who, as far as the Mice can tell, are a mix of Telmarines and Calormenes), two giants, and a few Talking Animals of the larger sort--Cheetahs, Bears, and an Elephant. 

Jewel, the leader of the Mice, is a little smaller and quieter than the others but she has bright brown eyes that seem to miss nothing. She scampers across the map and points to the largest of the towers they've drawn there. "She's taken up residence in the northernmost tower," Jewel says, then describes the layout of the tower in some detail. "If she dies, perhaps her enchantment will end with her. Would that I could have come upon her sleeping," she adds, patting the tiny rapier at her belt. "But she was never alone, and I could not get to her without being seen. It seems she has little need of sleep."

"Best that you didn't risk it," Susan says. 

"But we did create an opening at the base of the tower." Jewel indicates this on the map. "Every place we could find a way in was just enough to allow the us Mice entry, but far too small for you or Sir Brienne. Here, though, we created a way in that's big enough for you. It will put you near the back servants' stair."

The plan is decided then, after several hours' deliberation. Lucy will bring her forces--two score armored Centaurs make up her cavalry, and an equal number of Fauns her archers, plus a handful of Cheetahs, Leopards, and Panthers--to attack from the south. Her archers will come in from the sides to take out the two giants at the gate, which will be opened from the inside by the Mice who will sneak in the north side of the castle with Susan and Sir Brienne. While the Mice open the gates to allow the rest of Queen Lucy's forces inside, Susan and Brienne will find the Crimson Queen and eliminate her--hopefully ending the enchantment she has over her prisoners. The Griffins will provide cover for anyone escaping the castle, and if it comes to a true battle, they will assault the castle by air. 

Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane, and Lord Peridan will have no part in the battle. Even Ghost will remain behind. It is clear that Ghost is as intelligent as any Talking Animal of Narnia and as the Crimson Queen has some Animals in her thrall, there is no need to risk Ghost falling under her spell as well. Susan thinks that Lord Peridan has explained to Jon and Tormund the insidiousness of the Crimson Queen's enchantments and the way that even the most strong-willed man cannot resist such magic, but she can tell that it does not please Jon to have to sit aside while women go to battle. She expects it did not sit well with Peter either, to send Lucy while he remained at Cair Paravel, but there is nothing to be done about it. Jon and Tormund seem fearsome warriors, when the need arises. Susan has no wish to be on the wrong side of them in battle, and that is exactly what will happen if they fall victim to the Crimson Queen's enchantments.

After the plan is made, Thorntail the Eagle flies away to meet Lucy's forces coming from the south and inform her of the plan, and the rest of the group makes ready to move out. "Your Majesty?" says Jewel. "Might I have a word with you and Sir Brienne alone?"

"Of course."

Jewel waits until the others are out of earshot before speaking. "I didn't want to say this in front of the whole company, Your Majesty, as it seemed more of a private matter and not something to be widely known. But when we were gathering information in the castle, I saw the Crimson Queen with His Majesty King Edmund. They were…" She pulls at her whiskers anxiously, and Susan thinks that if she didn't have fur the Mouse would be quite red in the face with embarrassment. "He was in her private chambers."

"I see," says Susan. She does not _want_ to see, though she can imagine all too well.

"It was clear to me that His Majesty was under the deepest sort of enchantment," Jewel adds hastily. "Of course King Edmund would not be there by choice. But I did hear her say that she needed 'king's blood' for something. Perhaps another enchantment, some other spell. I was not able to hear everything she said from my hiding place."

"You were right not to make this information widely known," Susan says. She thinks Edmund would not want something so personal known to an entire company, especially when he could do nothing about it. "But I'm glad you told us. It will give us a better idea of what to expect when we find her. Thank you, Jewel."

"Your Majesty." Jewel bows and scampers away to ensure her Mice are ready to travel. 

"If only we did not have to wait for Lucy's forces to arrive!" Susan is unable to contain her frustration. "I do not want to think what this woman might be doing to my brother, even now."

"I understand your frustration, Your Grace," says Sir Brienne. "But you've had wise counsel. The scouts say your sister's forces will arrive within a day."

Once the Eagles confirm that Lucy's force is in position to the south, they move in the darkest hour of the night. Susan and Brienne and the Mice enter through the back of the castle. It's easy for the Mice, but less easy for Susan and Brienne as it involves crawling through a long, narrow passage inside the crumbling stones of the wall, a passage that is more than adequate for the Mice but barely wide enough for the two women. It is not even crawling, really--it is part crawling, and part climbing, and part squirming on their bellies, depending on whether they are going up or sideways or sometimes both at once. Now and then Susan will grab at something that seems like it will be a good hand-hold, only for it to crumble away in her fingers and cause her to stumble and get a faceful of dirt and dust.

After crawling for what seems like forever--with Jewel leading the way, Susan following her, and Brienne bringing up the rear, Susan can see a patch of light ahead. Jewel darts up into it, serving as a lookout while Susan pulls herself out of the smothering passage into a long, empty corridor.

"Your Grace!" Brienne whispers loudly.

"What is it?"

"This last bit is… not quite wide enough."

Susan looks back and down to see that the last turn of the passage is not quite wide enough for someone as tall and broad shouldered as Brienne, and one shoudler is stuck but only just. "Keep a look out," she tells Jewel, putting down her bow and reaching down to grab hold of Brienne's arm. Susan is terribly afraid they will be discovered with Brienne stuck in the passage and that will be the end of them and their mission; she hears a faint echo of footsteps round the corner and knows that it is now or never, and that terror gives her and Brienne a tremendous burst of strength at once and then, finally, she is suddenly pulled free and they are in a heap on the floor of the corridor, panting. But only for a moment, as Jewel urges them forward, and Susan barely has enough time to grab her bow and run after Jewel as fast as she can. They round one corner, and then another, up a long back staircase onto another corridor that seems to go on forever, and then they dart into a darkened room, and Susan fears that she is panting for breath so loudly in the quiet that anyone in the hall must surely be able to hear them. After some long moments she hears steps in the corridor, and some low voices speaking; then the footsteps resume and fade away as if the person is moving on again.

In those long moments, Susan's eyes adjust to the near-darkness of the room, and she finally catches her breath. It seems to be a bedroom of some kind, long unused, with some furniture upturned and others broken or covered in dust. Jewel darts soundlessly across the floor, Susan and Brienne following much more carefully. At the far end of the room is a pair of doors and a balcony, just as Jewel described to them, a long balcony that runs all round the outside of the tower, connecting all of the rooms within it. By following this balcony, they will come to the Crimson Queen's chambers. Jewel keeps very close to the wall, leading the way; Brienne follows, with Susan behind. They move along the outside of the tower, keeping to the shadows to lessen the chance they will be spotted by any sentries that might be about; presently Jewel holds up a paw to signal them to stop, and she goes on alone for a few moments.

In those few moments, Susan has enough time to think about just how high up they really are. When she was moving, and her eyes firmly fixed on the solidness of the tower wall, it was easy to pretend she was on the ground or very close to it, but now that she has stopped and is waiting for Jewel to return, she is all too aware of how very high up they are and how much the wind is whipping at her face. _Do not look down_ , Susan tells herself firmly. _You fell from a great height before and you lived to tell of it. Do not be afraid._ It only helps a little, but it is better than nothing.

Jewel returns presently, her tiny paws silent on the stones. "The Crimson Queen is in her chamber," she whispers. "With King Edmund. If we can take her now… one arrow will do it, Your Majesty."

One arrow. One shot, and she can save Edmund from this woman and whatever blood magic she wants to work with him. Jewel darts ahead again, and Susan follows. When they come to the doors of the Crimson Queen's chamber, Jewel is small enough that she can dart past unseen. Brienne stays back a few paces, but Susan carefully steps right up to the edge of the open balcony doors so that she can see just into the room. 

Edmund and the woman are seated close together at a small table before a fireplace, a scene that in any other situation would be quite romantic. Just as Brienne had described, Susan cannot tell if the woman is beautiful or plain--indeed, when Susan thinks back on this later, she will find it very difficult to describe her appearance at all, as if Susan is not quite capable of seeing her features fully. But Edmund seems to find her quite beautiful, staring at her over a goblet of wine as if he has seen no other woman but her before in his life. She feeds him a bite of something from her fork and he laughs, then leans in to kiss her, and Susan feels vaguely ill at the sight.

Susan draws an arrow from her quiver, knocks it to her bowstring, and draws, her aim focused on the Crimson Queen's heart. Just as she is about to loose, several things happen all at once, so fast that Susan is not sure what happens first: there is a loud clanging of bells and shouts coming from the inner court of the castle, like an alarm, and a guard bursts into the Queen's room; the Queen looks up and sees Susan and ducks just as Susan lets her arrow fly. The guard is on Susan at once, dragging her into the room and knocking her bow from her hands as he pins his arms behind her back. 

"Edmund!" Susan calls, hoping against hope he will recognize her, but there is nothing of her brother in his eyes; they are blank, as if the enchantment has erased any trace of who he is. Susan fights her captor as hard as she can, but he is much taller and stronger than she is and she can neither free herself nor cause him enough pain to break the hold the red woman has over him, no matter how hard she struggles.

Then Brienne is in the balcony doorway, her sword drawn.

"Protect your Queen," says the red woman, in a voice that sounds like broken glass to Susan, and Edmund draws his sword and lunges. Brienne's strike is quick and powerful, but Edmund matches her easily, and it is a fearsome fight, a dance of steel that is beautiful and terrible. Susan has never seen a woman as deadly as Sir Brienne; Susan has her skill with the bow and Lucy does as well, but it is nothing compared to Brienne's ferocity and strength. There is no doubt Brienne could very well kill Edmund. She must be trying not to, but Edmund is very much trying to kill _her_ , and Susan realizes it may not be possible for Brienne to simply injure him and break the enchantment. She may _have_ to kill him, to save herself and everyone else. Edmund gets in a lucky strike, and Brienne is pushed back toward the open door, and if he can press further he will have her off the balcony. 

Susan fights her captor harder then, to no avail, but suddenly he grunts heavily and lets go of her, dropping to the floor like a stone. Susan cannot find her bow and doesn't take the time to look for it. She launches herself at the red woman, having no particular aim in mind except to _stop_ her however she can; they crash against the fireplace and the red woman's feet slip from beneath her and she falls. Susan's head smacks against the hearth and it dazes her for a moment, then tiny hands tug at her and a little voice (Jewel's, she realizes) says, "Your Majesty! You must move away from the fire!" 

The sickening smell of burning hair and flesh fills Susan's nose then and she gags, crawling away from the fireplace. The red woman had hit her head nastily against the andrions of the fireplace when she fell, and the flames have engulfed her--and that has killed her and broken her enchantments, Susan realises, as she looks up to see Edmund with a look of horror on his face. 

"I'm sorry, Su," he says, and he looks so terribly dazed and defeated that Susan cannot bear to see it. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she says, forcing herself to her feet. He sheathes his sword and she holds out her hand to him, and after a moment's hesitation, he takes it. "We must find the others and get out of here."

The fire has begun to spread, traveling from the Crimson Queen's body to the rug at her feet and soon it will fill the whole room. "Let the whole place burn," says Edmund. Susan cannot argue with that; this is an evil place. Brienne kneels by the guard who had captured Susan and finds him dead, a long, thin slit across his throat that could have only been made by the tiniest of rapiers.

"I did not want to kill him," Jewel says, tugging at her whiskers, "but I could not be sure he would let you go otherwise, Your Majesty."

"What is done is done," Susan says. "Let us find the others and leave this place." By his dress he seems to be Calormene. Susan instructs Sir Brienne to bring his body, and they will have him returned to his countrymen with an explanation of what has happened. 

As they move through the corridors, it is soon clear that Lucy's forces have taken the castle just as planned and are freeing all of the Witch's prisoners, directing them outside. Just outside the gates, Lucy is organizing all those who had been taken by the Witch, and when she sees Edmund, she runs to him, throwing her arms about his neck. 

"Oh, Edmund, I'm so glad you're all right."

Edmund says nothing, only hugs her tightly for a long moment before letting go. "Do we have all the others?" Susan asks, to spare Edmund having to say anything. "The free folk and the Narnians that were with Edmund?"

"All are accounted for," Lucy says, finally letting go of Edmund. "Most of the prisoners were Telmarines, Calormenes, and a few Archenlanders. They are accounting for their own, and we will help them get back to their homes."

The Calormene man that Jewel killed is the only casualty, besides the Crimson Queen herself, and Susan is thankful for that. After all the men, giants, and Animals have been accounted for, and anyone with serious injuries given a dose of Lucy's cordial, it is nearly dawn, and the whole company moves a safe distance from the burning castle to regroup. Lord Peridan, Jon, Tormund, and Ghost join them presently. 

And then, it must be decided what to do next.

The Telmarines and Calormenes who were prisoners of the Crimson Queen want to go home immediately. Both were groups of traders who had come to Narnia with their wares to take to market, and were tricked into joining the Crimson Queen just the same as Edmund and his party had been. Neither group had intended to remain in Narnia for very long. The Calormenes burn the body of the man who was killed, and explain that they will take his ashes with them to be buried at the temple in Tashbaan. Lucy and her forces will escort them through Narnia; first the Telmarines to the western border, then the Calormenes as far as Mt. Pire. Lucy dispatches a pair of Griffins to Archenland to request King Lune send an escort to meet the Calormenes there and see them across Archenland to Calormen.

As for the two giants, Cruggan and Osag, they had not come into Narnia on their own at all, but were the first ones taken in by the Crimson Queen some time ago when she traveled through Ettinsmoor. They are the twin nephews of the Giant King of Ettinsmoor, and had been taken by her so long ago that they knew nothing at all of Peter's recent battle with their people. When Susan and Jon explain the expedition to the Wild Lands of the North, Cruggan says, "My brother and I will go with you. You Narnians freed us from the Crimson Queen. In return, we will give you safe passage across our lands and help you find the free folk."

That is a help Susan had not imagined they would have, and she is beyond grateful for it. With the giants as their escort, they can take a more direct route and not worry so much about staying out of sight. "Thank you, Cruggan," she says. "Your help is greatly appreciated."

Edmund is very quiet through all of these discussions and arrangements. The only thing he says during these plans is that he wants to continue north with the expedition. When the plans are made and each party begins their preparations for departure, he goes off by himself for a time. "Is he all right?" Lucy asks.

"I don't know," says Susan. "He was… I think the Crimson Queen wanted him, particularly. Jewel overheard something about 'king's blood' and I think perhaps she was up to some dark magic, but I don't know what. I am sure he feels very guilty about what has happened."

"But he should not feel guilty at all," Lucy protests. "It was not his fault! He was tricked and enchanted, just like all the others."

"Yes, you're right. But that is logical, and feelings don't always follow logic. Sometimes we _know_ we ought to feel one way, but can't help feeling another." Being made to do things against one's will must not help that feeling at all, and Susan cannot help but wonder if perhaps Edmund's experiences with the White Witch years ago make him feel worse about what happened with the Crimson Queen than he would already. He has never spoken of his time with her, and Aslan told Peter, Susan, and Lucy that they were never to ask him about what happened. "We must not press him about it, Lucy. If he wishes to speak, he will, and if not, we should not pry. We can only make sure that he knows we do not blame him, and that we love him."

But Susan cannot help but worry that it might not be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read The Silver Chair, you remember the Lady of the Green Kirtle and her spells, and how it's hinted in the text that she has some relationship to Jadis. The Crimson Queen is a similar sort of character.


	9. The House of Fangdor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The home of our parents," Osag explains, squatting down beside the humans so he can speak to them without shouting down at them. Whenever he or Cruggan do this, the humans and Animals are careful to stay in front of them and not behind. Once, Cruggan fell over while talking to them and his ample backside made a sizeable crater in the grass. "It is called Fangdor."

The northern expedition has grown by four: the two giants, Cruggan and Osag, who offered to escort them through Ettinsmoor, along with Jewel the Mouse and Rainclaw the Griffin. Jon wonders why no Talking Animals save the Eagles had come with them initially; Peridan explains that because they were trying to avoid notice through Ettinsmoor, they only included humans in their party. Now that they have two giants for an escort, avoiding notice is not a consideration. Rainclaw joined the party to help with scouting, but Jewel asked to join them simply because she thought it would be an adventure. 

Jon had thought the plan to use Mice to infiltrate the castle and bring back intelligence to be a clever plan, but he had not taken them seriously when it was suggested that they would also participate in the battle if necessary. After all, they were mice, and Jewel's sword was no bigger than a dagger and no thicker than his little finger. But when Brienne had brought the body of the Calormene man out of the castle and said that Jewel had killed him to free Susan, Jon saw the deep, clean edge of the wound in his throat and started to wonder if he had misunderstood Narnia all along.

He had thought, at first, that Narnia was something out of a crib tale. Inhabited largely by Talking Animals and seemingly blessed with ample resources relative to its small size, it has been difficult for Jon to feel a real sense of danger here other than when they first arrived (and then, what danger they did face had truly been from the human rulers of the country, and not the other inhabitants). The rain, the collapsing bridge, and the cold weather had been ordinary sorts of dangers that one could find anywhere. There was danger, yes, but it was difficult to see it behind the friendly faces of Hedgehogs and Beavers and Fauns and Mice.

But the Crimson Queen and her particular enchantment trouble him deeply. What sort of dark magic only works on men? The free folk and Narnian lords affected seem to have generally put it out of their minds. It seems they had little interaction with the witch once she had them back at her castle, and had not been made to do anything (other than abandoning the expedition) that caused them serious distress. King Edmund, though, seems troubled.

If Jon and the free folk, and Sansa and Tyrion, had been able to come through to Narnia so easily, is it not reasonable to assume that others from this world could arrive beyond the Wall in the same way? Others like this Crimson Queen (Susan had mentioned a White Witch from times past) or Calormenes from the south or Telmarines from the west? With so few free folk beyond the Wall and little left of the Night's Watch below it, what would stop some creature from this world coming through and causing trouble for the free folk or the North? What other sorts of sorcery lurk in the far corners of this world?

The swiftness with which Queen Lucy was able to assemble an army--an all-female army, at that--intrigues Jon, as well as the composition of that force. From his vantage point on the side of a hill near the castle, Jon had seen enough of the brief battle to be impressed. The excellent spying skills of the Mice and the strength of the Centaurs were invaluable, and though the Griffins had played little part in the battle itself he can see how they could act much like flying siege weapons if it had been needful. An alliance with the Narnians might be of benefit.

Jon is in no position to negotiate anything of the sort. When they return to Cair Paravel, however, he will suggest it to Sansa (if she has not thought of it already). Bran will not be king forever, nor will Tyrion always be the Hand of the King. The next people to take those places may not be so friendly to Sansa or whoever sits her throne. The North may need allies, and Narnia may be in a position to help them. 

(He is not thinking of Aslan in this. He has only seen Aslan once, but he gets the idea that Aslan is not the sort of being to involve himself in human alliances.)

The Narnians and the Giants of Ettinsmoor are not allies. Jon has heard of a battle between the giants and King Peter, a battle that resulted in Ettinsmoor finally agreeing to an uneasy sort of truce with Narnia. Cruggan and Osag, however, know nothing of this conflict, and are surprisingly cheerful for giants. They shorten their strides to walk alongside the humans in the party but due to their height, it's difficult to make conversation with them until they stop to make camp for the night. The first two nights of their journey, there is little to say, outside of planning the next day's ride. Everyone is so tired they do not make it very far from the witch's castle on the first day, and after a simple supper no one is interested in anything but sleep.

The third night is different. Two full day's ride brings them well into Ettinsmoor. It's cooler as they move further north. No snow on the ground, but the wind has a sharp bite, and when they ride into a deep valley they see a motte-and-bailey structure that is far larger than any of that kind Jon has ever seen--which of course it would need to be, Jon thinks, if it were to serve as a home for giants--the whole party is glad that they will be able to spend a night out of the wind.

"The home of our parents," Osag explains, squatting down beside the humans so he can speak to them without shouting down at them. Whenever he or Cruggan do this, the humans and Animals are careful to stay in front of them and not behind. Once, Cruggan fell over while talking to them and his ample backside made a sizeable crater in the grass. "It is called Fangdor."

Fangdor is not particularly elegant, but it is so large that Jon thinks that Winterfell, including the godswood, could fit into it twice over and still have room to spare. The palisade around the structure is so tall that Jon cannot imagine the height of the trees that must have been felled to create these enormous logs. There is an vast drawbridge at the main gate, so wide that Cruggan and Osag can walk side by side across it and still have room for all of the humans and Narnians between them. There are two giants at the gate; one of them takes one look at the giant twins and says something in a language that is clearly not the Common Tongue but Jon doesn't need to understand the words to see that the twins have been greatly missed. 

The Narnians and free folk follow the twins into the enormous bailey. The high palisade blocks so much of the wind that Jon immediately feels much warmer than outside of it. As they move through it they pass what looks like barracks and halls to the left and workshops and stables on the right, and everywhere the giants stop and stare--surprise and excitement at seeing the twins, and a mixture of curiosity and hostility at the humans and Narnians. "Ghost, stay close to me," he says, when it seems Ghost is tempted to run after a stray sheep. Ghost might be larger than any regular wolf, but he still looks small as a pup compared to the giants, and it makes Jon nervous for Ghost to be running about their heels.

After a stop to stable their horses (the stable has higher ceilings than that of the great hall of Dragonstone, Jon thinks) they continue on. Ahead of them is an earthen motte as tall as a small mountain. By the time they reach the keep at the top, all of the humans and Ghost are panting with the effort of the climb--but not Jewel the Mouse, who flew up on the back of Rainclaw. Word of the twins' arrival has clearly spread. Out of the cavernous keep come two giants, male and female, and in contrast to the twins' grey leather jerkins, furs, and bits of mail, these are more splendidly dressed in shades of purple and green and gold along with fur and leather.

"My boys!" says the giantess, and hugs them to her, adding words in the strange grumbling tongue Jon heard before. There is a long conversation then, between the giant, giantess, and the twins, with lots of gesturing and clapping on the back and some tears from the giantess. Jon has never seen a giant cry before, and it is very nearly like being rained on. He cannot understand anything said in the giant's language, but from the gestures he thinks it the story of their time with the Crimson Queen and the battle that followed.

"Father, Mother," Cruggan says, finally switching to the Common Tongue. "We bring guests, from Narnia and another land far away, called West-ros. The Narnians and this lady knight of West-ros freed us from the Crimson Queen. In return we will help the West-rosi look for their lost people called free folk."

Osag steps back a little so that the party of humans and Narnians can be seen. "Father, Mother," he says. "King Edmund and Queen Susan of Narnia. Your Majesties, our parents, Lord Crotag and Lady Agnir of Fangdor."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord, my lady," says Susan. 

"King Edmund and Queen Susan?" says Lord Crotag. "You are brother and sister to King Peter?"

"Yes, my lord," says Edmund.

"I fought him at the Battle of the Shribble," says Lord Crotag. "Did not think I would stand here talking to a Narnian and let you live. You brought our sons back to us, though, and we are grateful. You are welcome in our hall and at our table, and our swords will not rise against yours so long as our sons shall live."

"Thank you, my lord," says Susan. She makes a graceful curtsy and Edmund a formal bow.

Osag makes introductions of Jon, Brienne, and Tormund then, and the rest of their party, and Jon is thankful Tormund has not given his name as _Giantsbane_ in their hearing. These giants are different from those he knew with the free folk. More clever, he thinks, which could easily mean more cunning, and more dangerous. Osag and Cruggan have been cheerful and friendly, but they are young and have not fought the Narnians the way their father has. Jon did not miss the giant lord's words, _Our swords will not rise against yours so long as our sons shall live_. It seems a strange sort of oath. Jon does not know whether that is the sort of oath customary for these people, or if it is a veiled sort of threat. 

"Come in, come in," says Lady Agnir, gesturing broadly, then claps her hands. "You must be tired and hungry, you will want beds and food. We have already eaten, but you will not go hungry."

Beds and food they have in plenty, both in quantity and in size. It seems that the giants of Fangdor are not used to having human guests, for the rooms they are given are the size of halls and the beds are near the size of a small room in a regular castle. It is perhaps the strangest thing Jon has ever seen. A servant brings water for washing, but the tub is so big that even when only half full, Jon could swim in it. Indeed, he is so tired and the water so deep he could likely _drown_ in it, so he does not take his time even though the hot water feels blissfully good, for fear he will fall asleep there. The towel left for him is the size of a large carpet, and the _actual_ carpet on the floor is thicker than the bedroll on which he has been sleeping during their travels.

He meets the others in another large hall for supper. There is no point in trying to sit at the giants' tables; even if they stood in the chairs, they would still not reach the table. So the humans and Narnians sit on the floor, much as they have around the fire when they make camp, except they sit before the fireplace. Not too close, though; the fireplace is at least three times as tall as Jon and so hot they have to sit some yards back from it so they aren't baked alive. 

Lady Agnir apologizes for the lack of amenities. "We have not had human guests as long as I have lived at Fangdor," she says, directing the servants here and there. "Nor Narnians," she adds, with a glance at Jewel, Rainclaw, and the Eagles. If Jon finds everything enormous, he can only imagine what it feels like to the Mouse. The giant servants bring so much food that Jon could not care less if it was served in a trencher or on a silver platter or, as in the case of the ale, in one of Lady Agnir's thimbles. The ale is very good, so much so that it's only after he's started on his second thimbleful that he realizes how _strong_ it is. He decides it unwise to have too much more of it, and puts his thimble of ale aside to concentrate on the food instead. 

"It's all very good, my lady," Jon assures her. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"This makes the ale at Winterfell taste like piss," says Tormund, grinning at his thimble of ale. His _third_ thimble of ale, Jon notes.

"It is the best ale in Ettinsmoor," says Cruggan, eschewing the giants' table to sit on the floor near them so he can talk to them. "We will take some, when we go north."

"Ah, giants." Tormund has a long swallow of his ale. "We don't have giants beyond the Wall anymore. They're all gone."

"Gone?" asks Osag, sitting beside his brother. "Where did they go?"

"They died in battles," Tormund says. "Fighting the Night's Watch, fighting the kneelers in the south… of course, they call me--"

"It's very sad," Jon says, forestalling the story he knows Tormund is about to tell. This is not the place to tell why Tormund is known as _Giantsbane_. "That there are no more giants in the north. Most of the tribes of the free folk only have a few people left. That's why when we heard of some lost free folk in your Wild Lands of the North, we knew we had to find them."

Tormund nods. "You're different than our giants were. Our giants didn't live in castles, they weren't lords and ladies and kings. They were free, just like the rest of us."

Osag drinks his ale from a cup nearly as large as a person. "We are free as well." 

"No one who kneels is truly free," Tormund says. "The free folk don't kneel. Not even to kings and queens as pretty as you," he says, gesturing to Susan and Edmund. "Or this one," he adds, slapping Jon on the shoulder hard enough to knock the wind out of him for a moment. 

"No one's asking you to kneel, Tormund," Susan says. "Not us, anyway. I hope the free folk would think of us as… allies. Friends, even, despite our rocky start."

"Har! You're not so bad, for kneelers. I've known worse."

"Let's not talk about the worse." Jon does not want to risk Tormund getting any ideas of talking about things he'd rather not share with the Narnians. 

"What do you mean by free?" It's difficult for Jon to read the expression of giants, but Osag seems curious, putting aside his cup of ale to lean closer to Tormund, with his elbows resting on his wide knees. "You do not have kings? Or was that only your giants?"

"All the free folk," Tormund says. "We go where we want, do what we want. No one sits on a throne and tells a man what to do. That's what it means to be free."

"Do you have laws?" Edmund asks. Having eaten his fill, he stretches his legs out toward the fire. "Rules?"

"Aye. Some," Tormund allows.

"Then how are they enforced if you don't have rulers?"

Tormund shrugs. "Depends on who it is and what they did," he says. "Every clan decides for themselves. Might be sent away, might be killed. You don't like the rules of the clan, you can go find another place to live. No one's stopping you."

"It sounds like an… interesting way to live," Susan says diplomatically. "Except for the part where you go about stealing women to be your wives," she adds.

Tormund laughs. "Don't worry, little queen," he says, "No one would steal you after seeing what your family does when one of you is threatened. That sister of yours…" He makes an appreciative noise. "She's a little thing, but she came riding over that hill with her army and I nearly pissed myself."

"Yes, my brother and sisters are quite fierce when the need arises." Edmund puts down his thimble of ale. Jon sees that he has only drunk a little. "Please pardon me, my lords. I've had too much supper and far too much ale, and I cannot keep my eyes open. I will see you all in the morning."

Susan watches him go for a moment, then puts her own ale aside, barely touched. "Please excuse me," she says, and follows Edmund out of the hall.

"Did I say something?" Tormund asks.

"No," says Lord Peridan. "His Majesty is usually quite eager to learn of the customs and cultures of other lands. I think aught else troubles him this evening."

There is a lull in the conversation then, as no one is quite sure what to say. Brienne looks uncomfortable, as does Jewel the Mouse, who tugs at her whiskers and has another drop of ale. Osag breaks the silence by calling for a servant to bring more ale. Then Cruggan says, "Tell us more of the giants of your free folk."

*****

"Edmund?" Susan knocks softly at the door to Edmund's room. "Edmund, do let me in. It's only me."

After a moment, Edmund opens the door (this made easier by a clever latch the giants have put further down the doors to the rooms the humans have been given, as the usual handles are far above their reach) and lets her in.

Susan closes the door gently behind her. "Are you all right?"

"Of course."

"Edmund." She touches his arm lightly. "You've hardly spoken since we left her castle."

"I've not had much to say."

"Which isn't like you." Susan wishes she knew what to say to ease his mind, but she's finding the right words are elusive. "No one blames you for what happened, you know. They were all taken in, same as you, and Peridan only got away because Sir Brienne nearly hacked off his arm trying to escape. It wasn't any particular strength of mind on his part, only a great amount of pain."

"I know." Edmund puts his hand over hers for a moment and squeezes, then lets go and crosses to the window at the far side of the room. As this room is nearly as large as the throne room of Cair Paravel, it takes him some time, and after a moment Susan follows him so they will not have to shout at each other. "I know you must be thinking she… did something to me," he says, staring out of the window. "Got me into her bed, I mean. She meant to, I think, but she hadn't got to it yet. I think she was rather trying to convince herself that I was falling in love with her properly, you know, instead of it all being an enchantment. I expect letting things happen slowly gave her the illusion that it was real."

Susan exhales a little with relief. Having one's mind toyed with is terrible enough, without anything else going along with it. "I'm glad for that, at least," she says. "I mean, not that I'm glad for any of it, but that she hadn't… done that. Jewel said she overheard her say something about 'king's blood.' I suppose she was trying to work some dark magic and needed you for it." And getting him in her bed would have been part of it, something that turns Susan's stomach to think about.

"I don't remember exactly what she said," Edmund admits. "Everything about that time with her is so jumbled. Do you know what it's like when you've had too much to drink? And you wake up the next morning and you can't remember everything that happened? It's a bit like that, as if it's all tossed about in my mind, even though at the time it all felt rather clear. But I _am_ sure that whatever she planned to do, it was part of a plan to invade Narnia. Even if I'm not sure of anything else that happened, or exactly how she planned to go about it, I am quite sure about her goal."

"Edmund, I'm so sorry for it. If I hadn't been so foolish about the bridge--"

"Then _I_ might have washed away instead of you and Jon Snow, and like as not she would have come upon you all first and found me anyway," Edmund says, turning to Susan, "with no one left to raise an alarm. No one is to blame except _her_." He shakes his head. "No… it isn't _her_ that troubles me. Not really. It's only that… well, she reminded me too much of the White Witch. Which must sound foolish, especially after all this time."

"No, it doesn't sound foolish at all." 

"It wasn't that they were even very much alike," Edmund goes on. "It was… well, at the time, everything about the Crimson Queen felt very clear. I didn't _realize_ it was an enchantment until it was broken. I felt very much as if I was in my right mind and it was just like I was a little boy again, sitting in the White Witch's sleigh and eating Turkish Delight. I _wanted_ it to be like that, and that's what troubles me. _Now_ I know it was part of her enchantment, but it was such strong magic that it made me feel as though it wasn't magic at all, that it was what I truly wanted. I think I'm going to be doubting my own mind for a time, wondering if my thoughts are mine or if they've been put there by someone else."

Susan cannot think of anything more terrible than that. She had been frightened when she had realized that Rabadash meant to take her by force if she turned him down, but somehow that seems a shade less terrifying than doubting one's own mind, having one's thoughts and will controlled by someone else. "You are the most thoughtful of all of us," she says, "and you have the sharpest mind. You keep us all reminded of what is important. No magic can ever truly take that away. Don't let her make you constantly doubt yourself." She thinks that way lies madness.

"I don't want to let it be that way. But that's the thing about this sort of magic, Su. It gets in your mind and it just…" He makes a frustrated sound, gesturing to his head. "It's as though it gets its fingers in there and makes it hard to tell what are your real thoughts and what isn't. I think if I try to think of other things, it will help, instead of thinking on this over and over. Now, you weren't hurt, were you? When you fell?"

"No," Susan answers. "I was only wet and cold, but that was fixed easily enough."

"What was Tormund talking about, stealing wives?"

"Some free folk custom. It's how they choose a girl to marry. They just… steal her. And if she doesn't kill him, then they're married. He explained it but I… was too horrified to get most of it, to be quite honest."

"I try to keep an open mind about how other people in other countries do things, but that, I believe, is too much even for me," Edmund admits. "He didn't lay a hand on you, did he?"

"Goodness no. He's been quite kind, actually." Tormund is rather loud and crude, but he also seems to be the sort of person who is exactly what he appears to be and does not waste time pretending to be something he isn't, nor apologizing for what he is. It's a very honest way to live, Susan thinks.

"I hope so. And these giants? Do you think we can trust them? The twins seem an all right sort, but their father… he seems to quite hate Peter, and Narnians generally. I hope we aren't walking from one trap into another."

"He did swear not to raise his swords to us."

"Yes, but it was a strange sort of oath. I think we ought not to be too separated tonight, just in case. These rooms are far too large for one person, anyway. Sir Brienne, Jewel, and Rainclaw ought to share your room, and we men should double up too. That way, if there is some trouble, they haven't got us on our own." 

"I agree." Edmund is likely already second-guessing himself, and Susan wants to help him squash that if she can. She leans up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "It's very sensible. I'll go and suggest it to the others."

Cruggan and Osag are making their way from the hall when she returns, and they bid her goodnight as they head for the long, winding stair. Jewel is fast asleep, leaning with her back against Ghost. They are a little closer to the fire than the others, who are talking quietly. 

"How is your brother?" Jon asks.

"All right," Susan answers. "Truly only tired." It is not entirely the truth, but it is close enough as not to matter. She glances at the stair to be sure the twins have gone, then says in a low voice, "Edmund and I think that perhaps we ought not split up completely for the night. Brienne, you and Jewel and Rainclaw ought to stay with me, and the men ought to do the same in a couple of rooms. The twins seem all right, but I'm less confident about the others."

Brienne nods in agreement. "I think we'll all rest easier."

"If we're quiet about it, we won't give offense," Peridan suggests. "Your Majesty is wise to be cautious." 

Since they're all in agreement, the others begin moving out of the hall towards their rooms. Jon hangs back, and doesn't immediately leave; Susan wonders at it and lingers in the hall as well. Ghost has made no move to dislodge Jewel, so perhaps Jon is waiting for him. She's noticed that Jon and Ghost are nigh on inseperable.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?"

"Yes. Well. Close enough to 'all right,'" she amends. "Except that you're calling me _Your Grace_ again and not Susan."

"Habit," he says softly, almost smiling. _Almost._

It's so rare that he smiles that even a hint of it lights up his serious face and makes him look quite handsome. It kindles her curiosity about him, like everything about him seems to do of late. "May I ask you something?"

"I don't think I will be able to stop you," he says, and she is not sure if he's teasing or not. He certainly doesn't sound as exasperated as the words might imply.

"Tormund said he wouldn't kneel to kings and queens as 'pretty' as Edmund and me, and then he said, 'or this one,' and he clearly meant you. What did he mean? I don't mean about kneeling in general, or kneeling to us," she clarifies. "I think we've made it clear we don't expect the fealty of the free folk, though I do hope for their friendship. I mean… what was he talking about, with you?"

Jon looks deeply uncomfortable then, and Susan at once feels badly for prying, but she cannot _help_ it. She has never met someone so mysterious as Jon Snow, and she has never felt so strongly the need to get to know a person, to find out what makes them _them_ as she feels about him. "I'm sorry," she says quickly, before he can answer. "Don't answer me. I shouldn't pry in your affairs. It's only that you are such a puzzle to me, and I… I cannot stop thinking about you."

He is so quiet for such a long time after she says that, that Susan thinks he might be angry, or offended, or some other unpleasant thing, but it's so difficult to tell because his face gives little away. "Aye," he says, when the silence finally becomes unbearable. "I've been thinking of you as well."

There it is, out in the open, and now that it has been said, it cannot be _un_ said. She wishes it could be, for both their sakes. "Forgive me for saying so," Susan says. "It isn't fair of me to--"

"No, it isn't fair. But you shouldn't apologize." Jon's voice is soft.

"I want you to find your people so you can take them home," she says. "But…"

He smiles faintly, but there's a little sadness in it, too. "My father used to say that everything before the word 'but' is horseshit."

"It isn't." She touches his arm lightly. "I _do_ want you to find them. _But_... I don't want you to go." It is unfair of her to say so, but she might as well be honest. She likes him, and not just because he is a mystery. And she will miss him very much when he leaves.

"I must." 

"I know." Susan draws her hand back from his arm and clasps her hands together to keep from fidgeting, or reaching out to touch him again. "And I understand why. You swore an oath to the Night's Watch. It's your duty."

"Aye. It's my duty."

 _But Sansa wants to relieve you of that oath, and pardon you for the crime you won't even speak of,_ Susan thinks. Surely he must have talked to Sansa about that long before coming here, or even after. How could he not accept a pardon from his sister? It is one of the many things that makes Jon such a mystery to her. "We should get some sleep," she says, wanting to extricate herself from the conversation before she says something else foolish. "Tomorrow will be busy." 

"We should. It's very late." 

But Jon does not seem to be in a great hurry to leave the hall. He takes her hands in his, and for a moment he just holds them, looking as if he has something he wants to say but isn't sure how to go about it. "There are things you should know," he says finally. "Things that I…"

"You don't need to tell me." Whatever he thinks he ought to say, it seems to trouble him. That isn't what she wants. "You don't have to explain anything to me. I shouldn't pry." But she _wants_ to. Susan wants to know why he is who he is, to _know_ him.

They are of a height, and standing close with her hands in his, it would be very easy to lean in to kiss him. He has a mouth that seems made for kissing, she thinks, although she has no great experience of men; soft and full with a hint of a pout to his lower lip that only becomes more pronounced when he is deep in thought, as he seems to be now. 

Perhaps her face shows too much of what she is thinking, because Jon squeezes her hands lightly. "We shouldn't," he says in a whisper.

"You're right," she agrees, equally soft.

"But…"

Susan thinks to ask him if it is horseshit, then, but he leans in to kiss her and she can say nothing at all. Jon kisses nothing like Rabadash, who had kissed her as if it was his right to do so at any time whether she wanted it or no, even when he was still playing at being charming and gallant. Jon is simply tender, and though it is a gentle kiss it makes her heart race in a way it never has before. There is so much promise in this kiss, such potential for wonderful things, and it makes her heart sing.

_But._

Reluctantly, she draws away. Even as she's drawing away she isn't entirely sure she wants to, but she must. Jon Snow must go back to Westeros, to the Night's Watch, when the free folk are found. That is how this must end, and to pretend otherwise will simply hurt them both. "We shouldn't," she says, even though it is the last thing she wants to say.

"No." He lets go of her hands, reaching up to trace his fingertips against her cheek for a moment before drawing away. "We shouldn't."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." 

Susan turns away to cross the room to Ghost and Jewel, still asleep by the fire. She kneels down beside them and touches the Mouse's shoulder. "Jewel," she says, "it's late. You should get some sleep." 

Jewel's eyes slowly open, her whiskers twitching. Susan had only seen her take a drop or two of ale, but it was so strong and Jewel is so small compared to a giant that it must have hit her quite hard. "Your Majesty?"

"I didn't want to leave you in the hall alone. Come, let's get some sleep."

When Jewel gets up, so does Ghost. He gets to his feet and stretches, yawning silently, then pads over to Jon without a sound. "Good night, Your Grace," says Jon softly.

"Good night, my lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of goings-on at Cair Paravel in this chapter. We will catch up with Peter, Sansa, and Tyrion in the next chapter! Thanks again for reading.


	10. Narnia and the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As the Hand of the King to the King of the Six Kingdoms, it would be inappropriate for me to give advice to another sovereign," Tyrion says carefully, looking up at her. "But as your friend…"

With nothing for Peter to do but wait for news of his brother and sisters, he was driving Sansa mad with his pacing and fretting. Tyrion too, perhaps, as he had suggested he might be interested in learning more about the Mermaids he'd heard lived in the sea below the castle and Peter had readily seized the excuse to do anything but fret and pace. 

The three of them are walking along the shoreline when the messenger arrives. This time it is a Griffin, another creature Sansa thought existed only in heraldry and crib tales, like the Centaurs and Mermaids. "Your Majesty," she says, with a bow to Peter. "I bring news from the north."

"You may speak in front of Queen Sansa and Lord Tyrion, Greyfeather," Peter says, "as it concerns their people as well. What news? Is my brother--?"

"His Majesty King Edmund is safe and well," says Greyfeather. "As are Queen Lucy and Queen Susan and all the rest of the party." She describes the battle and its outcome, noting the loss of only one life besides the Crimson Queen. "Queen Lucy is taking the Telmarines to the western border, then will take the Calormene men south to meet an escort of King Lune's men at the border of Archenland before returning to Cair Paravel. King Edmund and Queen Susan continue north with the Westerosi and two giants."

"Giants?" Peter says in surprise.

"Yes, Your Majesty. Cruggan and Osag of the House of Fangdor, twin nephews to the King of Ettinsmoor. They've agreed to provide Their Majesties with safe passage through the giants' lands."

"That's convenient," says Tyrion. "Didn't you say their safety in Ettinsmoor would be a concern, Your Grace?"

"I did."

"Then a giant escort should be helpful," Sansa says hopefully. _As long as it isn't a trap of some kind_ , she thinks, but perhaps there is little choice for Jon and the others but to trust in the giants. If it gets them through Ettinsmoor safely, it's worth it; and perhaps they can travel faster without worrying about being seen.

"Perhaps," Peter says, and scrubs his hand over his face. "But I don't like sitting by while they're out doing things. Especially my youngest sister… with a bunch of foreign men!"

"Your sister is a woman grown, with an army," Tyrion points out. "She's hardly alone, Your Grace."

"Yes, well. The Telmarines will not be a problem, I think. But the Calormenes… we were just at war with Calormen. When they learn that the only casualty was Calormene, they may take it as an insult." Peter sighs. "Please excuse me. I should go and see to some things. Feel free to stay and enjoy the beach as long as you like. It really is lovely in the morning."

Sansa watches him go. She cannot help it, really; he is tall and long-limbed, with a warrior's broad shoulders and blond hair that catches the morning sun as he walks away. Peter has shown her and Tyrion every kindness--at least, he has since their initial chilly reception--and she truly wants to like him and his brother and sisters. But Cersei had been kind to her at first, as had Joffrey, Littlefinger, her aunt Lysa, even Ramsay. She never should have trusted any of them.

She can't trust anyone who isn't her family.

"A copper for your thoughts," Tyrion says after a time, when Peter is out of earshot.

"What?"

Tyrion nods in the direction Peter had gone. "What do you think of him?"

"Oh. Peter? He seems nice enough."

"Hm." Tyrion continues walking along the beach as they had been doing before Greyfeather arrived, and Sansa falls into step with him, shortening her stride to match his. "Does it strike you as odd that none of them are married?"

"The older sister almost was. The one that's gone north, Susan," Sansa says. "To some prince from the south. But she turned him down."

"I see."

"Peter said he was… well, the word he used was 'a brute', I think." Sansa shudders a little. She has known several men in her lifetime who could fit that description and does not care to imagine others. "He was the prince of Calormen, the country Peter said they were just at war with." She wonders if that was _why_ they were at war. 

"Fighting a war with the giants to the north at the same time as fighting with Calormen to the south, and coming out victorious in both? An impressive feat," Tyrion muses. "Especially for a country so small one can cross it in just over a week." 

"Yes, it is." Sansa had not quite looked at it in that way before. But it _is_ a feat. Both of those wars inside the last month, then little more than a fortnight later they were able to put together yet another force for an assault against this Crimson Queen. She is well aware that after the beating the north took from the Night King's army and everything that has happened in the last few years, they could not fight a battle on one front just now, much less two. There is no reason to think Bran and the south will ever attack the north, and the free folk are likely to want to simply mind their own business and live their lives… but it will not always be that way.

"As the Hand of the King to the King of the Six Kingdoms, it would be inappropriate for me to give advice to another sovereign," Tyrion says carefully, looking up at her. "But as your friend…"

"You're suggesting a country with such military strength might make a valuable ally for the north," Sansa finishes.

"I would never presume to give you advice, Your Grace."

Except he _is_ , even though he's being cryptic about it. He isn't like the other Lannisters were, Sansa thinks. He never was. 

That evening, when she goes to the small hall to meet Tyrion and Peter for dinner, the table is set for three, but there is no sign of Tyrion. It seems unusual to Sansa; she has never known Tyrion, someone who truly appreciates good food and better wine, to miss a meal, and certainly not at the Narnians' table.

"We ought to wait for Lord Tyrion," Peter suggests. He pulls out Sansa's chair for her, though, and they sit. 

A young tree-spirit with pale yellow petals in her hair brings out the wine. She is careful not to let the petals fall into the goblets as she pours. "Apologies, Your Majesty, but Lord Tyrion sends his regrets. He says he has somewhat of a headache and will dine in his room this evening."

"Goodness," says Peter. "I do hope he's all right. Well. I suppose we will have to carry on without him. You don't suppose our excursion this morning was too strenuous for him?" he asks Sansa.

"No," she says. In fact, she is quite sure that Tyrion does not even have a headache at all, but has purposefully absented himself for her benefit so she might talk to Peter about things that the Hand of a neighboring kingdom ought not know about. "Lord Tyrion is quite a bit tougher than he looks." 

"You seem to know him quite well," Peter says, as the servants bring out the first course, a light soup with bits of shrimp and crab. 

Sansa makes a show of studying her goblet, when she is actually looking at Peter's reaction reflected in the same. His reaction to what she is about to say will tell her a great deal about what sort of man Peter is, she thinks, and how she ought to proceed. "I do," she says. "Lord Tyrion and I used to be married." 

Peter has just picked up his spoon; when Sansa says this, he puts it down again. "He was your _husband_?"

"Yes." 

"Since you seem to be on good terms, I assume that he is the first husband of whom you spoke, the one who was as much a pawn as you were, and not the cruel one?"

"Yes." Sansa dips her spoon into her soup and sips delicately. "Tyrion's nephew Joffrey was king of the Seven Kingdoms at the time, and his father Tywin was Joffrey's Hand. I was his family's hostage. Lord Tywin forced Tyrion and me to marry, in hopes of claiming my family's lands for the Lannisters."

Peter has not yet picked up his spoon. He looks too horrified to eat, in truth. "That's completely barbaric."

"Yes. It was. He did not want the marriage any more than I did." 

"Yet you've remained friends."

"Lord Tyrion has always been kind to me." He has been kind to her from the beginning, she remembers. When Ser Meryn beat her in front of the court on Joffrey's order, Tyrion made him stop. He refused to bed her even though he could not refuse to wed her, and he'd tried to make her life with him somewhat tolerable, even though Sansa knows there was nothing he could have done to truly make her happy. He had tried to comfort her when she learned of the deaths of her mother and Robb. It hadn't worked, but he had _tried_ when no one else did.

"I'm glad to hear it." Peter finally picks up his spoon again. "I'm glad he isn't the cruel one. I rather like Lord Tyrion. I would not like to have to kill him."

"The cruel one is long dead," Sansa says, but doesn't elaborate further. The manner of Ramsay's death is not a subject for dinner conversation.

"Good." There is some silence, then, and Sansa is purposefully quiet, waiting for Peter to speak again. She's interested in the direction he'll take the conversation, and again, it will tell her something about him. Presently, he puts his spoon down again. "So you aren't… You and Lord Tyrion?"

"No," she says. "Our marriage wasn't valid."

"Being forced to wed under duress? I should hope not."

There is a salad then, of spring greens with goat cheese and nuts, then tiny plump quail roasted whole and served with three kinds of vegetables. Sansa has never eaten so much in her life as she eats at Cair Paravel and she expects she'll have to have new dresses made when she returns to Winterfell; she'll be thicker about the waist than her aunt Lysa was. Peter seems rather lost in thought, saying little except to tell a servant to pass a message to Mrs. Beaver that tonight's dinner is especially delicious. 

When the dessert is brought (a soft vanilla cake topped with fresh peaches and cream), Peter leaves his untouched for a time. "Pardon my directness, but I find it curious that you'd not mentioned your marriage to Lord Tyrion before now, especially as we'd spoken about how marriage works with our kind of people before. I expect you have some reason for revealing it now?"

She had not expected Peter to be quite so direct, but it pleases her that he is. She has come to appreciate straightforwardness. "I told you because I wanted you to be aware of some of the realities of life in Westeros," she says. "In the North and in the Six Kingdoms. It is my wish that the North continues to be a free and independent kingdom as it was for thousands of years. In order to do that, the North needs allies."

"Since you are speaking to me of this need for allies, I assume you are thinking of an alliance between Narnia and the North?"

"Yes."

"Do you fear your brother might rise against you and try to bring you back into the Seven Kingdoms?"

"No. Bran had no objection to us remaining separate, and we are on good terms. I do not think Tyrion, as his Hand, would suggest moving against us unless we provoked them." The North is not in a position to provoke anyone, however. And as long as the North is left alone, Sansa has no intention of provoking anyone. "But there are other countries across the sea who might come against us one day--and Bran will not always be king. His successor might not be so kind to us."

And… it is not a thought Sansa likes to contemplate, but Drogon flew east with Daenerys Targaryen's body and no one has seen him since. If Jon could be brought back to life by the magic of a red priestess, who is to say that the same could not happen to Daenerys? Surely they would have heard of such a thing by now, if it happened… but what _if_? Or what if there is another Targaryen heir somewhere waiting for his chance to do what Daenerys could not? Sansa has to consider all the possibilities.

"I have no objection to an alliance with you," says Peter. "But as you know, we are a small country surrounded by larger ones."

"And you seem to be able to fend off those larger ones quite well," Sansa says. "Or am I mistaken that you were able to throw off both Ettinsmoor in the north and Calormen in the south at the same time? You had to split your armies and send them to defend opposite borders and were able to defeat them both; and you were in such good shape afterward that your sister was able to quickly gather fresh forces to go and take your brother back from the Crimson Queen with little trouble."

"You're not mistaken, no." Peter takes a long drink from his goblet and leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the table. "You would like Narnia's armies to aid you if you are under threat in the future. Could you offer us the same, if we needed your help?"

Sansa opens her mouth to say _yes_ , but stops herself. Perhaps in the future the North could be of assistance, but just now she is not sure what help they would be to anyone. "The North has been fighting for many years," she says. "Our ranks have been depleted. In time, when we've rebuilt our strength, we can assist you in that way, but just now… I'm afraid we cannot."

"I see. What else do you have to offer us in an alliance?"

The North is truly rich in three things: wool, timber and hides. None of these are things which Narnia lacks. White Harbor has excellent silversmiths, but Narnia is clearly not lacking in skilled metalworkers either, whether it be in gold, silver, or steel. She cannot think of anything that the North has to offer that Narnia does not already have in abundance.

Except for one thing. And that is not something Sansa is prepared to offer. 

"I will have to think on that," she says. "But I'm sure we can some to some agreement."

*****

The expedition leaves Fangdor better equipped than when they had arrived, with fresh rations (including a cask of Fangdor's best ale), better maps, and new, heavier cloaks better suited for the biting northern winds. A great benefit of their new friendship with the giant twins is that the party is not obligated to spend every night out of doors. Their second night after leaving Fangdor is spent at the keep of a family who are something like bannermen to Lord Crotag, and the fourth night they stay at an inn, of which the proprietor and all of the customers except for the Narnians and free folk are giants.

In both places, the other giants are both happy to see Cruggan and Osag (the twin sons of Fangdor seem to be quite popular amongst the "small" folk of the giants) and extremely wary of the humans. The twins are quick to share the story of the Narnians rescuing them from the Crimson Queen, however, and that goes a long way toward warmer, or at least less frosty, relations between the humans and the giants they meet.

At the inn, the tables and chairs and nearly everything else are far too large for the humans, but they're used to this by now and make themselves comfortable in a corner of the common room with as much hearty food and a particularly good blackberry wine as Narnian gold can buy them. 

Over the last few days of their journey, Osag has questioned Tormund and the other free folk at some length about what life is like beyond the Wall and what it truly means to be "free." Cruggan doesn't seem to be as interested, though he does listen politely (or what passes for politely, with giants). Tonight is no exception. Osag listens with rapt attention while Tormund explains about the different clans of the free folk, or what remains of them. The hall is warm and quite smoky, and between the warmth, the smoke, the food, and the blackberry wine, Jon finds it difficult to keep his eyes open. 

Yet he is not ready for sleep, either. He's had little of that of late, tossing and turning with the thoughts that are plaguing him. He excuses himself and pulls on his cloak, going outside for some fresh air. The wind is brisk here; the land is is a long, flat plain, with mountains far off to either side that let the north wind blow straight in with nothing to break it.

Jon is not long outside alone, despite the chill. Susan joins him in the inn's dooryard, her heavy cloak pulled close about her shoulders. She seems careful not to stand too close to him. 

"It was a bit hot in there." She pulls the hood of her cloak up against the wind. It is not cold enough for frost or snow, but the wind is bitter all the same. 

"Too hot for me." He might have dragon blood, but his wolf blood prefers the cold. 

"Is it this cold beyond the Wall?"

"Aye. Colder, even. Or it used to be." There were signs of spring showing just before they wandered past the Lamp-post. The snow might have even melted by now. He's trying not to stare at her overmuch, but he can't help but glance her way. There's enough light from the windows of the inn to see that the wind has colored her cheeks, and the silver fur lining the hood of her cloak is a stark contrast to her dark hair and deep blue eyes.

He should not be noticing these things. 

The silence between them stretches out uncomfortably long. Jon is still struggling for something safe to say when Susan says, "I'm sorry to disturb you. I only… we've hardly spoken three words to each other since we left Fangdor and I was afraid you might be angry with me."

How could he be angry with _her_? She's done nothing wrong. If Jon is angry with anyone, it is himself. "I'm not angry with you."

"But you _are_ angry."

Jon sighs. There is little use in denying it. "Aye." 

"Why?"

"Because…" Jon is not sure he can even explain why he's angry. "Angry isn't the right word," he says finally. What is the right word? Frustrated, bitter, disappointed… all of them, and none. "I don't know what the right word is." 

Susan draws her cloak more closely about her. "You said you left the Night's Watch once before," she says. "When you went to take Winterfell back from Sansa's husband."

"I did." A knot of dread forms in Jon's belly at the thought. He does not want to explain to Susan that he _died_ and was brought back to life by the magic of a red priestess. Not only does it sound like the ravings of a madman, but he does not know if the Narnians would think him evil for it. Most of all, he simply does not want to talk about it. Out of all the things he has done and seen and have been done to him, this is the one he tries to think about as little as he possibly can. The thought that there is nothing after death truly terrifies him. "I left because… I was trying to gather all of the north together to fight against the Night King," he says, and it is a lie, but it is as close to the truth as he can bear to go. 

"And you went back?"

"I was sent back to the Night's Watch," he says. "For the crime of murder." He cannot look at her face, because he does not want to see her reaction when she learns about what he really is. Instead, he looks out into the darkness beyond the dooryard of the inn. 

"I told you that Tormund and the free folk helped the north in the fight against the Night King, but I didn't tell you that they were not our only allies," he says. He explains that his people chose him to be King in the North after they took Winterfell back from Ramsay Bolton, about Daenerys and her dragons and trying to make an alliance with her. At first the words come stiffly, but soon they are spilling out of him like water over a dam and he cannot stop them. He tells her how Daenerys saved him beyond the Wall, and how he fell in love with her, and how he bent the knee to her both because he loved her and because he thought she would be a good queen, that he thought it was the best thing for the north to be part of the Seven Kingdoms again under someone like Daenerys. He explains that her father had been called the _Mad King_ and had committed many atrocities, some against Jon's own family, but he didn't think Daenerys would be like her father.

Jon does not mention that the Mad King is his own grandfather. He thinks the story complicated enough as it is. Why share this information with Susan, or any of the Narnians, when it means nothing to them?

Susan says nothing during all of this. She paces a bit in the yard, but Jon does not know whether that is a reaction to his words or simply an effort to keep warm, so he keeps talking. There is a tree stump in the yard, old and weathered smooth, and he sits on it then because telling the story is exhausting; he feels wrung out and he has not even come to the worst of it. Jon tells her again of the battle with the Night King and his army, adding Daenerys's part in it, and what happened after--Cersei, King's Landing, and how Daenerys burned the city, and what he did when he realized that she would go on killing anyone who did not share her vision of a better world.

" _They don't get to choose,_ she said. And then I knew what must be done… I looked into her eyes and told her that she was my queen, _now and always_. Then I kissed her, and stabbed her in the heart." He leans his elbows on his knees, feeling he might be sick, as he always feels when he thinks about that moment when he plunged his dagger into her breast and felt the life go out of her. "I used her trust in me to get close enough to her to kill her."

Susan still says nothing. Jon does not even hear her pacing anymore, and wonders if she has gone back into the inn. He does not turn to see if she has; he thinks the sight of the empty yard would be more than he could bear. 

Jon sits there so long that he thinks his arse might freeze to the stump if he stays much longer; then, quietly, Susan sits down beside him, close enough that her knee touches his. "Why did you kill her?"

"Because I knew that she would go on killing anyone who disagreed with her, anyone who didn't want to bend the knee." His voice is tired and his throat is raw from talking, but speaking of it lessens, just a bit, the weight of it on him. "And I knew… my sisters would never have bent the knee to her. She would have killed them." _They don't get to choose._

"Was there any other way to stop her?"

"No," Jon says. "If I'd had more time, I might have been able to come up with another way… but if I'd waited…"

"What would have happened if you waited?"

"She would have killed more people."

"Then it had to be done." Susan hugs her knees beneath her cloak. "I don't understand why you were punished for it."

"Sansa and Arya wanted me freed," Jon says. "But there were others who supported Daenerys. Some were Westerosi nobles, and her armies she brought with her from Essos. They wanted me executed for murder. Sending me to the Night's Watch was a compromise." Jon sighs. "Sansa wants to pardon me. But it doesn't feel right to accept it."

"Why?"

"Because it's almost as if I'm saying I didn't do anything wrong," Jon says, and though her initial silence was uncomfortable, her growing list of questions are somehow even more so, as if she is prodding at an old wound that will not heal. "Yes, it was necessary. It had to be done. But I betrayed her, and I murdered her. Letting Sansa pardon me… it's as if I'm saying it's fine for me to do those things, and it wasn't."

"Or… perhaps Sansa wants to give you a pardon not because those things were 'good' for you to do, but because she recognizes that there were no good choices in your situation and you chose the one that meant only one more person died instead of whole cities' worth," Susan suggests. "And that you don't need to be punished for that for the rest of your life." Her voice softens as she continues. "You loved Daenerys. It's clear from the way you speak of her that you loved her. Perhaps that made it hard for you to see what she truly was, and then harder still to do what needed to be done. But no one could hear you speak of her and have any doubt that you did this for any reason other than it was the only possible choice."

There is a lump in Jon's throat and he looks away even though it puts his face to the wind and it stings his cheeks and makes his eyes water. He loved Daenerys, and there's a part of him that loves her still, just like a part of him still loves Ygritte. He is not sure he has any more parts of him left. After a moment, he feels Susan's hand at his back, just below the hood of his cloak. Jon does not want to be comforted, but he feels steadier for it and does not shrug her touch away.

"Aye. I did love her."

He feels her hand at his back move a little, lightly rubbing at the space between his shoulder blades. Her touch is muted by her gloves and his layers of cloak and fur and leather, but he can feel it all the same and though he would not have sought out comfort for this, he finds he doesn't mind it.

"The Night's Watch mans the Wall, yes?" she asks after a time. "Or did I misunderstand that part?"

"You didn't misunderstand." His voice is a little stronger now that he can speak of something that isn't Daenerys. "All of the remaining black brothers are at Castle Black, at the midpoint of the Wall. We used to have the Shadow Tower at the western end and Eastwatch by the Sea at the other, but there aren't enough men to keep all the castles manned now." That, and Eastwatch was blasted to bits by Viserion and the Night King.

"But you weren't at Castle Black when you came to Narnia," she says. "You were beyond the Wall with the free folk."

"Aye."

"It seems to me that someone with your knowledge and skills would be an asset at Castle Black."

"I suppose," Jon allows, "but I can't do anything that others can't learn to do just as well, with time and effort."

"You're the former Lord Commander," she says, "and you say there aren't many men at the Wall. I suppose since the Night King is gone, you don't really need a lot of men on the Wall anymore, but you ought to have a certain number, at least, if you're going to have any at all, if there's going to be any sort of order there. But with all your skill and knowledge, you weren't at the Wall. You were off with Tormund and the free folk." 

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but she puts her gloved hand lightly on his knee. "Please let me finish?" Jon falls silent, and she continues. "I'm not accusing you of anything, Jon. Or questioning your honor. But to me, looking at it from the outside, it seems as though you don't want to accept Sansa's pardon because if she pardoned you, you would be expected to return to Winterfell instead of ranging in the north with Tormund and the rest of the free folk, not because you don't think you deserve to be exiled. If you _truly_ felt you deserved to be punished, you would have stayed at Castle Black with the rest of the Night's Watch to serve your sentence properly. Were you ever planning to go back there?"

He can no more lie to her about it than he could lie to Tormund when he asked him the same question; because a lie would leave a bad taste on his tongue, he says nothing.

"There's nothing wrong with not wanting to be a part of that anymore." She draws her hand away, under the warmth of her cloak again. "I don't blame you, really. You told me you were tired of fighting, and you have every right to be, only--I think you ought to be honest about what you're doing. If you want to go off and live with the free folk, go off and live with them, if that's what will make you happy. But let Sansa pardon you so you can go off with a clear conscience. Tell her that's what you want."

"She wants me to come back to Winterfell."

"Of course she does. She's your sister and she loves you. Your family is all scattered to the winds. If Lucy and Edmund and Peter left me, I don't think I'd know what to do with myself. I'd do anything to try to get them back. I can't imagine living without them."

Jon frowns as he thinks it over. He cannot truly argue with anything she's saying, but it still does not sit right with him. "It seems wrong to accept her pardon and leave," he says carefully. "I can never live at Winterfell again, though. Me being there would just undermine her rule." Both because he was the King in the North until he gave it up, and because enough people know about his birth parents now to either hate him or to try to get him to press a claim against Bran. There is no place for him at Winterfell anymore.

"Then explain that to her, and promise you will come visit her, at least. Then she can have an end to this chapter, instead of waiting and wondering when or if you will ever come home, and perhaps you can have an end to this chapter as well. You can go north a free man and start over."

It is sound advice, Jon thinks, even if he does not entirely agree with all of it. "I will consider what you've said, Susan. Thank you for the advice, and for the listening." 

He's called her by her name without thinking, instead of _Your Grace_ , and he likes the way it feels to say her name. Saying her name causes him to realize that in all her advice to him, in all her talk of him taking a pardon and going to live with the free folk for good, she's said nothing about _herself_. Nothing about not wanting him to go back, as she said a few nights ago. _Because she could never feel anything for a murderer, a queenslayer at that,_ he thinks.

"You're welcome." Susan gets to her feet, shivering a bit at a gust of wind that turns up the hem of her cloak for a moment, and Jon stands as well. "I suppose tonight is another night on a giant's floor. But it's inside rather than out, and that's all that really matters."

When she turns to go back inside, he says her name again, and she turns back to him. Jon thinks she looks almost hopeful. He is likely only imagining that. "Yes?"

"Now that I've told you what I've done," he says quietly, "does it change anything? Does it change… how you feel?" _About me_ , he wants to say, but he is not entirely sure what she might have felt before, or even what _he_ feels about any of it. Perhaps it is a foolish question, and in truth he has no right to ask it. 

Susan smiles softly. "No," she says. "It doesn't. You tried to convince me some time ago that you were not a good man. You utterly failed to do so then, and you failed quite spectacularly again this evening." She steps closer, resting her hand against his chest. "You have a lot to think about," she says, "and I don't think you should consider my feelings or what I want when you do. Think about yourself, just this once. What you want."

She draws her hand away, slipping it under her cloak again. "Back at Cair Paravel, Tormund said you ought to try to live your life as if you are alive. Decide what that means for you, Jon, so you can be happy."


	11. The Free Folk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aye, ye found us," says one of the elderly women, leaning on a walking-stick with one hand and holding onto the young woman's arm with another. Jon thinks she is even older than Old Nan ever was. "They let crows come this far from the Wall looking for free folk now?"

As the expedition approaches the northern border of Ettinsmoor, Thorntail, Swiftalon, and Rainclaw take it in turns to fly ahead and scout into the Wild Lands of the North for any sign of the missing free folk. Sometimes the party meets giant travelers on the road. When they do, Cruggan and Osag talk with them and ask them if they've seen any humans during their travels. At first, no one knows what they're talking about, and any talk of humans is met with a shrug and dismissive words. 

Then, on their last day before crossing the border, they meet a group of miners come down from the Locrian Mountains in the Far North. There are ten of them, fearsome giants taller and broader than the twins, accompanied by two mammoths pulling enormous sledges of ore. Susan has no idea what it might be; she guesses copper, but it could truly be anything. The miners tell the twins of a settlement of what they call "fur people" in a valley in those mountains. Tormund says their description could very well be of the missing free folk. After some negotiations, the miners work with the twins, Jon, Tormund, and Edmund to draw up a map. The expedition should reach them in a little over a week, if the weather holds.

The weather may be an issue. Early spring in Narnia is usually quite mild, if wet, but this far north there's still a chance of snow. There have only been a few flakes here and there, but the wind cuts like a frozen knife, and the clouds are grey and ominous. Susan does not like the look of them. Her suspicions are proved correct a few days later, when it begins to snow in earnest. There is little to do for it but pull up the hoods of their cloaks and keep going.

Jon and the free folk in their party are hardly bothered by the snow; Tormund explains that beyond the Wall it snows for years at a time and the free folk are quite used to it. Even in the years-long summers, much of the land beyond the Wall is covered in snow. It might be green for a year or so at a time at best, then it snows again. It's difficult for Susan to imagine seasons that last for years. There was the Hundred Year Winter to be sure, when it was always winter, never Christmas, but that was the work of the White Witch and Aslan's return to Narnia brought spring again. Now the seasons are only a few months each, as proper seasons ought to be.

"I do not understand how you can bear to live in the snow _all the time_ ," Susan says when they've made camp one evening. They are all sitting close round the fire while they eat their supper; the twins have put their backs to the wind, making somewhat of a windbreak for which all the humans are grateful. 

"It's best to keep moving," Jon says. He's sitting close enough to her that their knees touch, as is Edmund on her other side. "Easier to stay warm when you're walking or riding."

"Fighting's good too," Tormund says with a grin, gesturing with his spoon like a sword. "But fucking's best."

Susan has never heard this word, and is about to ask what it means when Edmund says, "My lord Tormund, please. There are ladies present."

"Har!" laughs Tormund. "I'm no lord. And they're women grown. They are like to have heard worse."

Sir Brienne frowns into her bowl of stew and says nothing. "It would take more than a word to shock me, I assure you," Susan says; she does not want to admit she's never heard the word before and seem ignorant, since all the men assembled clearly have heard it.

"What does it mean?" Jewel pipes up from her spot beside Ghost, who is curled up at Jon's feet. "It sounds rather wicked."

"It is not a word for mixed company, my dear Jewel," Edmund replies. Susan thinks he sounds for all the world like Peter just then, whenever he's at his stuffiest.

"So ladies can kill men in battle, but not know the meaning of a wicked word?" Jewel replies. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but that is the most foolish thing I've ever heard."

"Come here, little Mouse, and I'll tell you what it means," Tormund says, and he is not teasing her at all. He seems to have learned that Talking Animals do not like to be patronized any more than humans do, and in fact are quite sensitive to it. 

Jewel frowns at him, then scampers over; he leans down to whisper in her ear and Susan thinks that if not for her fur Jewel would be blushing furiously. "Well," she says, tugging at her whiskers, "I quite agree. It's certainly not a word for Her Majesty's ears."

Susan can only think of one thing that would be wicked enough for that sort of reaction. While she's never heard _that_ word used to describe it, she's not wholly ignorant of the world and what is in it; had she and Jewel and Brienne not just rescued Edmund from that very thing? Perhaps it isn't the nicest word one could use, but she finds all this fuss over a word and who is allowed to hear it to be rather silly and not at all practical. "Then do let us change the subject," she says with a huff.

Tormund laughs, declaring all "kneelers" to be the same, and for the first time Susan feels truly irritated with him. She feels she's done her best to respect the free folk and how they do things, so it grates on her when Tormund makes fun of their way of life. Being a king or queen of Narnia isn't about making people bend the knee; it is about accepting the duty to care for Narnia and its inhabitants as Aslan has charged them to do.

She cannot find it in her to be irritated with him for too long, though; in the morning he calls her _little queen_ with something like affection, clapping her on the back just as he often does to Jon, and helps her saddle her horse when her fingers are too numb with cold to tighten the girth properly.

"I'm sorry about last night," Jon says, as they make ready to leave. It has begun to snow again, lightly, and a few snowflakes settle in his hair, white against the dark curls. "Tormund just… says things."

"You don't need to apologize," Susan says. "My virtue will hardly be spoilt by a silly word."

Jon goes quite red in the face, then. So the word _does_ mean what she suspects it means; she's quite glad she didn't display her ignorance in front of everyone. "It's different with the free folk," he says. "They don't think about things the way we do."

"Jon, it's quite all right. He meant no harm by it; he was simply talking."

He seems reassured by that, and doesn't bring it up again as they continue north. Susan notices over the next days that he rides close to her more often than he did before; sometimes with Tormund, occasionally with Edmund, but most often with her. The wind and the cold make it difficult to talk as they ride, so the group generally rides in silence except when they stop to consult the map or their scouts. Susan finds she doesn't mind the quiet very much. In fact, she rather likes it, because Jon is simply _there_. 

The story he had told her at the inn had been difficult for Susan to hear, and far more difficult for Jon to tell. He seems a little eased for having told it, she thinks. It is not something he could easily forgive himself for, even if those around him seem to have forgiven him long ago (if they felt he needed forgiveness at all), yet Susan thinks it would be something like a tragedy for him to punish himself for it for the rest of his life. 

There is a very selfish part of her that wishes he would stay in Narnia. He has proven himself kind and honorable, almost to a fault, and she still burns with the memory of the single kiss they shared at Fangdor. What would it be like if they had the time to get to know each other better, to learn what makes each other happy and use it to build a life together? Susan knows this is a selfish thought. Of course he would not want to leave his friends in the free folk and be so far away from his sister. 

It is not a possibility to even discuss with him; she will simply have to content herself with the time together they do have and wish him well when he leaves. She _will_ encourage him to accept Sansa's pardon, though, so he can go and live with the free folk as a free man.

*****

"Am I disturbing you, Peter?"

Peter looks up from the papers on his desk and when he realizes it's Sansa, he quickly stands. "No, of course not. Come in." He nods to the guard at the door, who steps out and closes the door behind him. "What might I do for you?"

"I wanted to speak to you about the treaty we discussed a few days ago." Sansa's voice sounds much calmer than she actually feels at the moment, for which she is grateful. Her belly is a tangle of nerves and her hands would be trembling if she did not have them clasped together. 

"Certainly." He comes out from around the desk and gestures to the balcony adjoining his solar. The glass doors are open and there's a soft breeze off the sea below. "Come outside with me. It's quite nice this time of day."

The sun is on the other side of the castle in the afternoon, putting this side in the shade and making it nice and cool. There are a few cushioned chairs and a low table on the balcony, but Sansa does not sit. She thinks if she sits, she might jump out of her chair with nerves. "It's true that just now, the North could not provide Narnia with military support in the event it is needed," she says.

"Yes, you made that clear the last time we spoke of it," Peter says. As she did not sit, Peter did not sit either; but he leans against the railing of the balcony instead. "You've been fighting too many wars in a relatively short span of time."

Sansa nods. "Yes. In addition, the North's primary exports are wool, timber, and hides, and I don't get the sense that these are resources Narnia lacks."

"Not particularly, no."

"However, the one thing you lack is something that the North also lacks, and it is a problem we might solve together. Neither of us has heirs." Her heart is hammering in her throat as she says it. "Therefore, I am offering you my hand in marriage, if you will promise to aid the north with military support should it be necessary."

Peter's eyes go quite round with surprise. "Are you quite serious?" he asks softly, incredulous.

"Absolutely serious." He has not outright rejected her proposal, which is somewhat heartening, but her stomach is still a tangle of nerves. "It would not be a traditional arrangement. I can't leave the North to live here, and I do not think you would want to make the North your permanent home either. But you might visit as often as necessary to…"

"I see." There is a faint flush on Peter's cheeks, a flush that Sansa does not think is feigned. It gives her a faint wisp of something like hope that she might be able to trust him. "It would be my line that inherits, not Edmund's or my sisters'. The four of us decided this long ago. Do you propose that our child sit both thrones?"

"No." She has thought about this at length over the last few days. "If we are fortunate enough to have two children, the eldest will inherit the North only, and the second-born will inherit Narnia only. The family tie will keep the alliance strong long after we are gone. It will not matter to the North whether my heir is male or female, as long as they are my trueborn child. I've been spending some time in your library, of late," she adds. "It seems there have been several ruling queens in Narnia's past."

"There have," Peter allows. "What if we only have one child?"

Sansa has thought about this as well. "Then he, or she, will inherit the North. There is no other way for House Stark to continue. My brother Bran cannot father children, and he rules the Six Kingdoms in the south. The North will never be a part of that realm again. Jon is…" It seems Jon has decided that he will always be Jon Snow and has said nothing to the Narnians about being a trueborn Targaryen; regardless, _if_ he ever had children, they could never be Starks. Even though Sansa thinks of Jon as a Stark in truth, even if she offered to name him Jon Stark in the eyes of gods and men and make him her heir, she knows he would never accept it. 

"Jon is your half-brother," Peter says. "He's explained it to me. He's your bastard brother, which is why his surname is Snow and not Stark."

"Yes. I could name him my heir, but for several reasons, I think he would not accept it. And I cannot force him to. So it is my responsibility to carry on the family name. Bran and Jon cannot, my other brothers are dead, and my sister Arya… I do not even know where Arya is." It pains her to admit it, and she misses her sister more than she ever thought she possibly could. Winterfell is not the same without her. "You, though… you have a brother and two sisters. I know you've agreed that it will be your line that inherits, but in the event that we only have one child, you might consider naming one of them your heir and letting them carry your house. I would… do everything possible to try for more children," she adds quickly, even though the idea of being with any man in that way is quite impossible for her to imagine. 

But she must, or else she is rebuilding the North for nothing.

Peter considers this for a moment, then steps close to her, taking her hand. "You've given me quite a bit to think about," he says gravely. "I cannot agree to anything like this without consulting with Edmund and my sisters, of course. They would have to agree to it. This is the sort of thing we all decide together."

"It's a wise king that considers the counsel of his sisters." Sansa is able to smile a little at that. 

"Not only consider," Peter says. "In all important matters, we decide together. And this would be one of _the_ most important matters. The future of Narnia. And the future of the North," he adds. "So while Jon does not rule the North with you the way my brother and sisters rule with me, he's still your family, and you ought to speak with him as well--if only so you can be assured the agreement we come to is just as fair to you and the North as it is to Narnia. I don't want to do anything that you might later feel puts you or the North at a disadvantage."

Sansa desperately wants to trust him, and when he says things like that, it gives her hope that she might be able to. 

But what if she is wrong?

*****

It feels to Jon as though they have been riding through the desolate lands of the north for ages, although it has only been little more than a week. It is not like the north of Westeros, the lands beyond the Wall. The snow is drier and blows around like fine sand along a wide, flat plain with tough grasses, scrubby brush, and very few trees; by the end of the week, the land abruptly rises into jagged, snow-capped mountains. According to the map the miners helped draw up, the free folk can be found in a valley beyond those mountains. Thorntail and Swiftalon fly ahead as the others make camp at the base of the southern side of the mountains, and when they return, they confirm that there is a small settlement of people on the other side. 

There is a steep track through and around the mountains that Jon thinks may be the road used by the miners when they come south. It's the road they take the next day, and by evening they come to the valley on the other side. Sheltered by the mountains from the brunt of the winds, it's less bitingly cold and they make better time. In the distance, Jon can see the settlement, a cluster of crude huts and shelters, some covered in hides, situated on the banks of of a decently-sized stream. As they ride closer he makes out stables and pens for goats and sheep and a smoke-house, and beyond them some land that might be fields for growing crops in milder weather.

No scouts ride out to meet them as they approach. When they come to the edge of the settlement, a group of people come out of one of the huts and approach. They are clad in furs and leather, and after a moment Jon realizes that the entire group is women. One is young, perhaps Jon's age, and a few are middle-aged, but the rest seem almost elderly, bent and crabbed by the years. They give Tormund and Jon and the free folk in their party a glance, the giants a more wary one, but seem to take little notice of the Narnians.

Jon and Tormund dismount and approach the women; it had been agreed earlier that they would do most of the talking when they finally found the free folk. Jon leaves his swordbelt on his horse and makes sure they can see he has no weapons in his hands as he approaches. Ghost trots along at his side. "I'm Jon Snow," he says, "and this is Tormund Giantsbane. We're looking for a group of free folk that came here from beyond the Wall."

"Aye, ye found us," says one of the elderly women, leaning on a walking-stick with one hand and holding onto the young woman's arm with another. Jon thinks she is even older than Old Nan ever was. "They let crows come this far from the Wall looking for free folk now?"

"Something like that," Jon says. "The army of the dead, the White Walkers, the Night King, they're gone now. It's safe to come back beyond the Wall. We can show you the way, if you'd like to come with us."

The old woman scoffs. "Do ye not remember me, crow? I told ye, we'll find our own way."

Jon cannot ever remember seeing this woman before; he cannot imagine how someone so old could have traveled so far from Westeros and survived. But there is something in how she says _we'll find our own way_ that chills him, even if he cannot place it. 

Then he remembers.

_Burn it to the ground. And all the dead with it._

"You're Craster's wives," he says, hardly daring to believe it. He does not remember any women _this_ old at Craster's Keep, and even if he did--how could those poor abused women have made it so far away, with nothing but the clothes on their backs?

The old woman spits at the mention of Craster's name, and the younger one says, "Aye. And his daughters. We've been here for near on twenty years."

"But that can't be," Jon says. "That was… four? Five years ago?" No one could have aged so much in four or five years. He had wondered what happened to these women and their children, their _girl_ children, for he knows what came of the boys--they did not want to join with Mance, and did not want to come to the Wall with him, so Jon thought they had likely been caught up by the Night King's army and turned into more soldiers for him at some point. Yet clearly they have not, and Jon finds it somewhat of a relief. 

"Twenty," the elderly woman confirms. "Or near enough as makes no difference. I was there when ye came up from the Wall with Jeor Mormont, and there when ye killed those crows what killed Craster, and burnt the place to th'ground. Ye and yer great beast of a wolf."

"I was just a babe in arms then," says the younger one. "I don't remember any of it, but I've heard the stories. I'm Ysmene. This is my grandmother, Tilla," she says, nodding to the old woman holding to her arm, "and my mother, Dalmula." She gestures to the middle-aged woman on her other side. They all have the same muddy blonde hair, though Tilla's is thin and streaked through with pure white, and the same brown eyes.

Jon is incredulous. If Ysmene was just a babe when they left Craster's Keep, she ought to be the age of Gilly's boy, little Sam, and not a woman grown. But she _is_ a woman grown, and Jon cannot imagine why anyone would lie about such a thing.

"The White Walkers," Dalmula says. "Are they truly gone?"

"Aye," says Tormund. "And most of the free folk. But there's enough of us left to start over. You can join us," he says. "No one will touch you. I swear it."

"Any man touches me, I gut him like a fish." Dalmula looks past Jon and Tormund to the rest of their party. "Who're they?" she asks. "They don't look like crows nor free folk neither one."

Jon turns and gestures for Edmund and Susan and the twins to come forward. "South of here is a land called Ettinsmoor," he says. "Where giants live."

"Aye, we've heard of it," says Dalmula, eyeing the giants. "Them miners, giants all of 'em and a couple mammoths, come by here near on a fortnight ago."

"This is Cruggan and his brother Osag. They gave us safe passage through Ettinsmoor. And this is King Edmund and Queen Susan, of Narnia, a land south of Ettinsmoor." Jon explains briefly how he and Tormund and the free folk came to be in Narnia, and the sorts of creatures and people who live there so they won't be surprised when Jewel and the others start to speak. "The Narnians led us north to find you."

"Kneelers," says Tilla, with almost as much scorn as she'd said _Craster_. "I hope ye lot don't 'spect us to bend th'knee or any of that shite."

"Of course not," says Edmund. "We would not dream of asking you to do that. We just want to help you get back home."

Tilla looks suspicious that they would do such a thing without expecting anything in return, but she seems satisfied enough with that answer. "Well, we ain't got enough food for ye," she says. "'Specially for giants."

"That's quite all right," says Susan. "We brought our own rations, and we can hunt as well. We're happy to share with you, if you like."

Osag crouches down near the women; even when squatting, he towers over them. "We brought ale," he says. "You are welcome to it and anything else we have."

The mention of ale seems to thaw Tilla enough to allow them to enter the village. The giants are far too big for any of the huts, so they all sit outside the largest of them and the rest of the group come from the fields and stable and huts to join them. The expedition shares from their provisions and despite Tilla's statement that there isn't enough food, the women share theirs as well, what little they can spare. 

And then the story is pieced together.

Craster had had nineteen wives; when Gilly left with Sam, that made eighteen. When the mutineers were killed and Craster's hut burned, there were also twenty-three girls who had been too young at the time for Craster to wed and bed, newborns up to ten or so years old. These eighteen women and twenty-three girls had all left to find their own way, instead of taking Jon's invitation to join them at the Wall. Somehow they had managed to avoid both Mance Rayder's army and the army of the dead. They too had come into Narnia (though they had not heard it called such at the time) past the Lamp-post (though they had not known what it was), but instead of going east as Jon had done, the women continued north, through the ice and snow.

"This was before we came to Narnia," Edmund interjects here. "Twenty years ago would have been during the Hundred Year Winter, during the reign of the White Witch."

Somehow they had escaped the notice of the White Witch, and continued north until they found this abandoned village in the mountains. They had settled there and eked out a living as best they could. Even in the dead of winter there had been game in the woods and fish in the streams, and when spring finally came it got easier. There were few others this far north, save for the occasional giants coming through to mine, so the women were left largely alone. This suited them quite well, after what they had endured at Craster's. One of the babes had died of a milk fever before they arrived here, and one old woman died of the shivers last year, but the rest of them had managed to survive, even thrive.

Jon tells the women that Gilly is safe and well and living with Sam in King's Landing, that she's named her boy little Sam and she has another on the way. He wonders to himself if Gilly has had the babe yet, whether it was a boy or a girl--he hopes it is a girl. Then he explains about the Night King and the Army of the Dead and how they've been defeated, never to return. "It's safe for you to return, now," he says. "You can go on living as you've been living, but if you do--if you find men of your choosing and start new families, you don't have to give your sons to _them_ anymore. They're gone."

Susan and Edmund, seated beside him, are hiding their thoughts well behind bland expressions, but he's come to know Susan well enough by now to know that she is shocked and confused by what he's just said. He's thankful that she and the other Narnians don't ask for an explanation in front of the women. 

Tilla is quiet during this story. Then she pokes Ysmene with her walking stick. "Help me up, girl," she says. Ysmene is gentle and careful with Tilla, who looks as though she is made of kindling and a good stiff wind will blow her away. "I gave four sons t'the cold gods," she says, shaking her stick at Jon, "and 'alf a dozen grandsons. That fucker better be glad yer sister kilt him, else I'd kill him meself." She hobbles away on her walking stick and Ysmene's arm, then, muttering to herself, and after a few moments the other women begin getting up and going into their own huts and tents, leaving their party sitting by the fire pit.

Once the women are all out of earshot, Edmund says, "I think--I hope I've got this wrong, but were these women…"

"They were Craster's wives _and_ his daughters," Jon says, since Edmund seems not to be able to get the words out. "He would wed and bed his daughters when they were old enough, and he gave his sons to the Night King." Jon does not know, exactly, what became of the boys, and he does not want to know. 

It is better not knowing. 

"Those poor women," says Susan, hugging her knees under her cloak. "Having to marry their father and have his children, then give some of those children up to… that thing, and then raise up the girls just to do what they've done all over again… that's utterly dreadful."

"At least here, they've been left alone," Edmund says. "Free to do as they please, and the girls could grow up without… that." 

Jon nods, then looks at Tormund. "I'm not the ruler of the free folk," he says, "and I can't tell you what to do. But if these women come back with us… it would be best if no one got ideas about stealing them. They've been through too much."

"No one will touch them," Tormund says solemnly. "Not unless they ask to be stolen. Any man touches them unwilling, I'll gut him myself and piss on his corpse."

Dalmula comes to join them again, a little later. "There's room in me hut for th'girls, if ye want to bed down with us," she says. "You men, though--"

"If there's room in your stable, we could bunk there," Edmund suggests. "And if not, we're happy to sleep outside as we've been doing on the journey."

"Aye, the stable'll do," she says. "Mind ye keep yer hands off my sisters and daughters. We don't want none o'that here."

"You have my word," Tormund promises, and there is a murmur of agreement from the men in the party, Narnians and free folk alike. "No one will touch any of you."

That seems to satisfy her. "And ye keep that wolf out o'the rabbit hutch. Giants, ye're too big for the stable. Ye can sleep outside if ye like or there's a cave in that mountain just yonder that the miners use sometimes when they come through. Makes no mind t'me."

When she leaves, Edmund asks, "Do you think we can trust them not to kill us in our sleep?"

Jon nods. "Aye, we can. They might have lived here twenty years, but they're still of our world, and in the North, guest right is sacred. It's a custom as old as the First Men. We ate of their food and they ate of ours, so we're both safe from each other." 

Even so, Jon, Tormund, Edmund, and Peridan decide to take it in turns to keep a watch. No one in their party has been this far north, in this world at least, and they don't want to be caught unawares. Jon and Edmund take the first watch, seated on a pair of stumps near the stable.

Edmund has a wineskin from their provisions, and when he passes it to Jon to share it turns out to be filled with the ale Cruggan and Osag brought along with them. "We haven't anything quite so strong in Narnia," Edmund admits. "I can only stand a little of it, but it's good when one stands out in the cold."

"Indeed." He passes the skin back to Edmund. "What do you think will happen if I can't convince these women to come back to beyond the Wall?"

"They're welcome to stay in Narnia," Edmund says. "The others would have to agree, but I can't see why they would not, especially Susan. She was quite horrified by the story of what happened to these women."

"She was," Jon says. "It does not seem to be the sort of thing that happens in your world."

Edmund is thoughtful for a moment, drinking a bit from the skin. "Perhaps not as often as it does in your world," he says, "but there are dark things that happen here, too." He is quiet for a moment, somewhat thoughtful, then goes on. "I've noticed that Susan has been spending quite some time with you of late."

Jon had not thought it was so obvious; in a small party, there are only so many ways a group might travel. But he has come to like this Narnian king quite a bit, and he does not wish to lie to him. "Aye," he says. "I enjoy her company. She's a good person."

"That she is."

"If you're worried that I have some ulterior motive--"

"Worried? Not truly," Edmund says. "You seem a good sort, Jon Snow. I know that you offered to give up your life in exchange for the freedom of the free folk, and I believe your offer to have been a sincere one. You've acted honorably in your time here, and it has not escaped my notice the way my sister looks at you."

Jon does not know what to say to that. "I would not be… the right sort of man for your sister's affections," he says finally. 

"Because you are a man of the Night's Watch? Sworn to take no wife and father no children? I believe that's the way you described it, wasn't it?"

"Because of what I did to be sentenced to the Night's Watch," Jon says. He does not want to speak of it ever again, not in detail, so he gives Edmund only the essential points: that he supported Daenerys's claim to the throne of Westeros; when she burnt the capital with her dragon, seemed not to care about the loss of innocent life or that of people who had clearly surrendered, and made it clear that she intended to go on doing so, he killed her. 

It had to be done, but it was still treason.

Edmund thinks on that for a moment, then passes him the skin again. "When my brother and sisters and I first came to Narnia, it was rather by accident. It has been fifteen years and I do not remember all the details of how we came here, or even very much about what our life was like before we came here, but I do remember one part of it very clearly. I will never be able to forget it. 

"I was looking for Lucy in the snow, just past the Lamp-post, when the most incredible woman I had ever seen drove up in a sparkling sledge pulled by reindeer. She invited me into her sledge and I sat with her and she gave me sweets and hot chocolate and told me that she was the Queen of Narnia and that she was looking for a boy just like me to be her prince and take over as King one day when she was gone. All I had to do was bring her my brother and sisters. I was rather horrid then; I was angry at Peter for something so unimportant that I don't even remember now what it was, and I was tired of Susan bossing me about like a mother hen and Lucy being the baby and getting everyone's attention, and I thought it would be fun to be over _them_ for once. So I agreed.

"Later, when we were all in Narnia properly--do you remember Mrs. Beaver, who looks after us so well at Cair Paravel?--we were at her house, having a nice supper, when I sneaked away to find the Queen and tell her where my brother and sisters were. _Then_ I realized the truth of her, that she was no Queen at all but a Witch, but it was too late. She did not catch them, thanks to the Beavers, but it was a very near thing. Had she caught them, she would have killed them, and likely me as well, for Aslan meant to make us Kings and Queens of Narnia--it was why he brought us here in the first place.

"It was treason to tell their whereabouts to her, and unlike your treason, I had no good reason for it except that I was sore with Peter over some foolish thing and feeling sorry for myself. I should have been put to death for it."

Jon does not know what to say to _that_ , either, though there is a small part of him that thinks that if an enchantress in a sledge had driven up to him one day when he was young, after Robb had said _you ever can't be Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born. My lady mother says you can't ever be Lord of Winterfell_ when they played at swords in the yard, and offered to make him Lord of Winterfell, he _might_ have been tempted to do the same. And he had _loved_ Robb. "But you weren't put to death."

"No. Aslan gave up his life for me instead." Edmund's voice is very solemn and quiet. "He allowed the White Witch to execute him on the Stone Table in my place. I did not see it, but Susan and Lucy did, though they never speak of it. But there is a Deep Magic in Narnia that says that when a willing victim who has committed no treachery gives up his life in place of someone who has, then the Stone Table will crack and even Death will be turned back. Aslan came to life again, and the White Witch was defeated. 

"So you see, Jon Snow, I do not think what you did was so terrible at all. Certainly not more terrible than my own crime, for which Aslan himself has forgiven me and gave his own life to wash it out. My crime was a selfish one. You were at least trying to prevent further deaths."

 _Aslan came to life again._ Jon hears little of Edmund's words after that; he is too caught up in this idea to listen very closely to anything else, and it chills him to the bone. Jon came back to life once, Beric Dondarrion six times, but they are just men. Aslan is _Aslan_. He does not know what Aslan truly is, but he knows that Aslan is not a man like Jon or Beric, and he does not think it the work of a red priestess from Asshai that brought Aslan back to life again. It was something deeper, something older than the Lord of Light or the Seven or even the old gods.

His mind is so full of this idea that he says nothing for several long moments; then, remembering that Edmund has just shared something terribly personal with him that he ought to acknowledge, he says, "I had no idea of all that. Susan never mentioned it."

"Of course she would not have," Edmund says. "Aslan told my brother and sisters that there was no need to speak about what is in the past. They are good enough not to remind me of what I did, though I will not forget. I think every man ought to be given a chance to mend his ways, if he is inclined. You seem to have done that and more."

"So you would not object if I had an interest in your sister?" That is not the point of this conversation, but it is a far better alternative in Jon's mind than speaking of death and resurrection. That is a subject he cannot touch.

"No. I have seen how she looks at you." Edmund leans his elbows on his knees, giving Jon a frank look. "She had her affections toyed with by the crown prince of Calormen, a cruel and evil man, and it could have cost her her life. I love my sister. I would like to see her happy. If you've a true interest in her and you care for her, I have no objection. But if Susan is simply a pleasant diversion for you while you are in Narnia and you are not serious about her, if you break her heart, I _will_ kill you."


	12. The Bear and the Maiden Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her footsteps slow, then stop, but she doesn't quite turn to look at him. "I wish we had more time," she says quietly.

"I don't see why we need t'go back. We 'ad nothin but trouble there beyond th'Wall, and twenty good years 'ere." Tilla is the oldest of all of the women from Craster's Keep, and the most stubborn. And the rest seem to look at her as their leader. "There's none what bothers us 'ere and we got all what we need."

Jon has heard this refrain from her at least six times over the last few days. He had assumed--rather foolishly, he now realizes--that once the missing free folk heard that there was no danger in the north that they'd be more than happy to come back beyond the Wall with them and the rest of the free folk. He had not expected anyone to want to _stay_ here.

The older women seem to like the peace and quiet they've found here in the Wild Lands of the North. He can see why, he supposes. They see no one except the occasional giants come up to mine, and the giants don't bother them. They have to work just as hard as they did at Craster's, if not harder, but they have their freedom. 

The younger women see things differently. While their elders have told them of the horrors they endured with Craster, these girls were too young at the time to remember it for themselves. Ysmene seems to have the ears of the younger women; she argues that because there are no men, none of them are having children, and eventually these women will die off and the handful that remain will not be able to sustain themselves. "Do ye want t'see us whittle down to a handful and have them that's left starve t'death when we can't keep up wi'the animals and the fields?"

Tilla scoffs. "Ye've let that kneeler queen fill yer heads wi'nonsense," she says, shaking her finger at Susan. "Crib tales an' such foolishness. There's nothin' in th'world but 'ard work and then ye die, girl." She's made it clear, repeatedly, that she'd rather die here in the peace and quiet than back beyond the Wall.

Jon glances at Susan. There's a faint flush on her cheeks, but she says nothing in response to Tilla's accusations. It's true that she's been spending time with the younger women. Despite the elders' objections to leaving, the young women are determined to go, and have been making plans for the journey south. These plans include much mending and packing, deciding what they want to keep and what they must leave behind, and gathering up what provisions remain in the lean time between the end of winter and the beginning of spring harvests. Susan has been helping them with the mending and cleaning, and and Brienne has been helping with the packing, and as they've worked they've asked both of them questions. They want to know of Narnia, and of Westeros, and Jon can hardly blame them for being curious when this is all of the world they've ever seen or can remember.

Jon and the men have made themselves as scarce as possible. While he trusts Tormund and Edmund, he doesn't know the others well enough to know if they can keep their hands off the women forever. He is taking no chances there--and he doesn't want to give the elder women any suspicion that the young women just want to leave because some men came up and convinced them to. To that end he's set the men of their party to two tasks: building two wagons to carry the oldest of the women who aren't strong enough to ride horses, plus the provisions that can't be carried, and hunting and smoking enough meat to see them through the journey south. Both are things that need to be done anyhow, and it keeps the men and the group of women far apart except when they come together for meals.

The women take a vote, as they've done three times now. It's three-to-one in favor of going, with only the eldest women objecting to the journey. The first vote was nearly even between stay and go, so it's progress. Dalmula and the other middle-aged women are slowly coming round to favor leaving. 

"I don't want t'drag ye out kickin' and screamin', Gran, but I will if I must," says Ysmene. "I'll not leave ye here t'die all on yer own."

"Ye'll not tell me what t'do, ye ungrateful beast of a girl," Tilla spits back, and then the argument devolves into a shouting match between the generations of women in the room. Susan rises from her seat at the edge of the group to go outside, and Jon and Tormund follow her. The morning air is chilly, and Jon pulls up the hood of his cloak.

"I didn't think we would have to talk them into leaving," Tormund admits. "I thought they'd be glad to come home, back to the real north."

"They suffered for years under Craster," Jon says, "and the Night's Watch mutineers were even worse. They're likely afraid something like that will happen again, when here, they've been left alone in peace. The young ones will have their way in the end. We just have to let them come to it on their own--they've come far already. Soon they'll get their minds around it."

"No. We can't force them to do anything," Susan agrees. "It's their lives, and they have the right to decide what to do about it, even if we don't like it. All we can do is give them all the help we can if they want it, and stay out of their way if they don't."

It is not a sentiment Jon would have ever heard from a ruler in Westeros. Kings and queens and lords tend to do what they think is best without much thought to the wants or needs of those under them. It is something Jon himself has been guilty of in the past--he'd not thought about the Night's Watch when he brought the free folk through the Wall, and he'd not thought much about the North (save keeping them alive) when he bent the knee to Daenerys. Could he have done either of those things differently? He is not sure. Perhaps he will never be sure.

Tormund goes to help the men building the wagons, then, but Jon does not follow. "I had thought to go and hunt this morning," he says to Susan. "Will you come with me? Unless there was other work you planned to do."

"Nothing I can do while they're still arguing in there," she says with a sigh. "I'll come with you, just let me get my bow."

She fetches her bow from Dalmula's hut, where she's been staying with Brienne. As they leave the settlement, they stop by the men working on the wagons to tell them where they're going. He wonders if Edmund will object to him walking off alone with his sister, but the Narnian king only says, "Be careful," and goes back to his work. Ghost joins them at the bank of the stream as they cross it, and for a little while they walk in quiet with the wolf trotting along behind them.

"We don't actually have to hunt," Jon says after a time, when they're away from the settlement, just reaching the woods at the foot of the mountains. "Tormund and I brought down two deer yesterday."

"Oh." She doesn't seem to want to turn back, though, and there's a faint pinkness to her cheeks. "I see."

"I wanted to talk to you, is all." Jon has never been one for much talking, but he feels it's all he's done in Narnia. With Susan, he finds he doesn't mind so much. "I think… now that it's three to one in favor of leaving, they will likely have their minds made up by the end of the week."

"I think so."

"How long do you think it will take to get them to Cair Paravel?"

"A fortnight, perhaps," she says. "The wagons will slow us down some, but with Cruggan and Osag's escort we won't have to avoid being noticed when crossing Ettinsmoor, so that saves us a bit of time."

"I don't imagine we will spend more than a few days at Cair Paravel to resupply, and then about a week to cross Narnia again," Jon says carefully. "I'm sure Sansa is more than ready to go home. She won't want to be away from Winterfell any longer than she has to be."

"No, of course she wouldn't. She'll be needed there." Susan fidgets with her bow string, not looking at him. "So you'll be leaving in a few weeks. I… I knew you would be. This isn't a surprise."

 _But…_ he thinks. "Aye." Gods, he does not know what to say. He had thought he did, earlier this morning, when he decided he would speak with Susan, and now all the words he had carefully arranged in his head have flown out of it.

"Tell me you will at least accept Sansa's pardon," Susan says quietly. "Even if you don't go home with her, if you stay with Tormund and the free folk… I shouldn't ask you. It has naught to do with me, only it would ease my mind a little to know you're going back to your own world a free man."

Jon nods. "I spoke to your brother, the first night we were here with these women. He told me of what happened when you first came to Narnia, with him and the White Witch and what Aslan did for him." Jon's voice is soft as he says this; it seems something so serious should only be spoken of with equal seriousness. "I thought… if Edmund could bear knowing _that_ was done for him to take away the stain of his crime, I ought to be able to accept words on a parchment from Sansa for mine."

"I'm glad." The hood of her cloak has slipped back a bit and he can see she's smiling a little, but it's a sad sort of smile, and it tugs at something in his heart. "You shouldn't be punished for the rest of your life for it."

"Susan."

Her footsteps slow, then stop, but she doesn't quite turn to look at him. "I wish we had more time," she says quietly.

"Aye." There's a craven part of him that wishes there was some excuse for them to linger on this expedition longer, delaying their return. He cares for Susan a great deal, though he thinks perhaps he does not love her. The place in his heart where Daenerys had been is still raw, and it might never _not_ be. Perhaps in time, it would heal. Jon does not know. If they had more time, perhaps he could find out, but how would it be fair to Susan for him to hang about Narnia, waiting to see if he could love her? If he could not, it would only break her heart. 

But how can he go home, knowing that he might never feel again the way he does now? Jon touches her arm lightly. "Susan, look at me."

She takes a deep breath, straightening her shoulders, then turns to him. "I have never met anyone like you before, Jon Snow," she says, "and I don't think I ever will again."

"I'm sure you'll meet someone better than me," he says.

"I won't." She touches his cheek softly, and it is all Jon can do not to turn his face into her touch and soak up her small gestures of affection. He does not truly deserve them. "Will you kiss me again? It is selfish of me," she whispers, "but I want to remember… what it's like to be kissed by a man who cares for me."

It _is_ selfish of her to ask, but it is selfish of Jon to be glad she asked it of him, so he does not say no. 

He does not _want_ to say no. 

Jon means it to be a light kiss, and tender, more of a goodbye than anything else; but when he kisses her she sighs a little against his mouth and he is lost. He cannot stop kissing her. Susan drops her bow and winds her arms around his neck, and Jon slips his hands beneath her cloak to span her waist and pull her close. He kisses her mouth until she squirms against him, panting for breath, and when he kisses her jaw and her neck and the soft skin beneath her ear she curls her fingers in his hair and whispers _please_ and it is so tender it makes him ache, so wanting it makes him burn. 

Jon will not dishonor her. He is not quite so lost in her that he has abandoned all sense, but it is near the only thing he _can_ hold in his mind. _I want to remember what it's like to be kissed by a man who cares for me,_ she had said, and Jon can imagine all too well why she might have said such a thing; it makes him angry for her, and determined that she will have no cause to regret what they are doing now. She unfastens his cloak and he shrugs it off; she slides her quiver off her shoulder and he pulls off his swordbelt, hampered a little in the doing of these things by their need to be kissing each other endlessly. 

They lie down on his cloak together and go on kissing as if they had meant to do this all along. 

Her pale skin pinks where his beard rasps against it as he kisses her neck, even though he is as gentle as he knows how to be. The simple dress Susan wears for travel covers more of her skin than the lighter gowns she had had worn at court, but it does not stop him imagining that her thighs are as pale and smooth as her neck and would pink just as much if he kissed her there, too. That thought makes him burn _too_ much and he pushes it away, keeping his mind on what is and not on what could be.

He does not know how long they lie there on his cloak in the dappled shade of the forest at the foot of the mountain, just kissing. It feels like hours, though he knows it could not have been. He has never kissed a woman just to kiss her, without bedding her and knowing he won't, and it is strange--yet good in a way, too. But if he does not stop soon, he will not be able to stop at all, and he thinks that is not what she wanted when she asked him to kiss her. Susan seems to need to stop as much as he does, and he's strangely grateful for it; he shifts onto his back, easing her into his arms and she tucks her head against his chest. 

"Thank you," she whispers. "I wanted… I needed that."

Jon presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Aye." Perhaps he needed it as well, though he had not known it, nor would he have known how to ask for it if he had.

"I have made up my mind not to be sad that you will be gone soon," she says, winding a loose end of the laces of his tunic around her finger. "Instead, I will be thankful for the time we do have, and glad that I had a chance to know you at all." 

"If we had more time…"

Susan presses her fingers to his lips, quieting him with her touch. "I don't want to be sad about what we don't have."

Jon kisses her fingers then, and says nothing else about it. He does not know what to think about a woman who demands nothing from him for herself save for some kissing. Even that was a request, not a demand, and she gave as much as he offered. She has asked him to give her no oaths, no promises, and no pledges, not required his loyalty or his heart or his bed. In truth he is not entirely sure _what_ she wants. He is used to women who tell him exactly what they want and what the consequences will be if they don't get it.

He is thinking of a way to respond to that, turning it over in his mind, when a chill runs down his spine; he does not know whether he hears or sees or _feels_ Ghost shoot out from the underbrush, or all three at once, but he _does_ feel the thud of heavy feet upon the ground and sees a flash of white as Ghost launches himself at a massive brown-furred creature. A _bear_ , twice again or more as large as Ghost. Jon pushes Susan out of the way, but she's seen the bear too and she scrambles for her bow as Jon reaches for Longclaw, though neither weapon is immediately at hand and there is a long, terrible moment when Ghost is alone against the bear. Ghost snarls and snaps and lunges for the bear's throat but it twists at the last moment and Ghost misses his mark, tearing away a chunk of fur and flesh from its shoulder instead. Enraged, the bear swipes at Ghost with a massive paw, knocking the wolf off his feet with a yelp and sending him skidding across the forest floor. 

The beast rises up on its hind legs and roars, then drops to all fours and charges at them. Jon freezes for a moment, paralyzed by his fear of the worst for Ghost; Susan shoots the bear once, twice, and still it charges at them, then Jon's hand closes around Longclaw's hilt and he surges forward with a scream of rage. There is no grace to what he does then, only hacking and slashing and somehow managing to avoid the bear's teeth and claws and when it rises up again to swipe down at him from above, Jon thrusts upward with all his strength, driving Longclaw into the bear's heart. It gives a hideous roar and shudders, falling dead with a heavy thud. 

Jon does not wait to see if the bear is truly dead. He wrenches his sword free and runs to Ghost, dropping to his knees beside the wolf. The bear's claws dug into Ghost's side when it hit him, ripping a long gash from shoulder to tail, his white fur ripped away or matted with blood. But he is not dead. Jon can feel it. 

"Oh, _no_ ," Susan says softly. "Surely he's not--"

"He's not," Jon says flatly. "I would know if he was. He isn't." The gash is bleeding freely, but Jon forces himself to look closer and discovers the wound is long and wide but not deep, barely missing his vital organs. It may not be a mortal wound. "Do you have needle and thread?"

"In my things at the settlement," Susan says. "Will he let us stitch him up?"

"I'll make him let us. Get my cloak." Susan retrieves it, shaking off the bits of leaves and twigs from it, and helps him wrap Ghost in it. The wolf is as limp as a child's rag doll and it's only that Jon can _feel_ that he isn't dead that keeps him from fearing the worst. 

He has not held Ghost since he was a pup, the runt of the litter separated from his brothers and sisters, but he carries him now though he's as heavy as a man grown. Jon's arms ache and burn with the strain of carrying him but he never thinks of putting him down, not even once. By the time they are back at the settlement, Ghost's blood has soaked through the cloak and into Jon's tunic. A crowd gathers to see what has happened, and Tormund shoves his way through.

"What happened?"

"Ghost saved us from a bear," Susan says, when Jon cannot speak. She tells the others what is needed but it is all a blur to Jon; there is a taste of blood in his mouth and a feeling of hurt and fear and pain that is like to overwhelm him, as if he's been hurt as much as his wolf. They take Ghost into one of the huts, where Jon lays him by the fire in the hearth and there is a flurry of activity--putting water on to boil, bringing blankets and candles and all sorts of things Jon does not even look at. He only has eyes and mind for Ghost.

"Should we send for the cordial?" Edmund asks, kneeling beside Susan. 

"Lucy has it," she answers. "And we do not know if she is back at Cair Paravel yet; she could be anywhere along the borders or on the way home."

"Ghost will bleed out long before you find her," Jon says, his voice so thick with the coppery taste of blood he nearly gags on it. 

"Then we must stitch him up here and now," Susan says. Jewel brings her needle and thread from her packs and hovers nearby, tugging at her whiskers in dismay. 

"I'll do it," says Jon.

"Your hands are shaking too much," she points out gently, and she isn't wrong.

"He is like to bite you," Jon warns her. Ghost has not yet stirred, but Jon can feel the wolf's terror and he knows that as soon as he feels the bite of the needle in his flesh he will lash out with it. Though Ghost likes her, he is an injured and frightened animal, cornered and helpless, and he is more dangerous than usual for it.

Tormund crouches down beside Jon and presses a cup of the giants' ale into his hands. "Then we will hold him down," he says, "but drink this first." 

Jon downs the ale in three gulps while Susan and Jewel carefully wash the blood and dirt and bits of leaf from Ghost's fur. The wolf twitches at their touch and Jon is wary. "Jewel, be careful," he warns her. She is larger than any mouse he has ever seen, but Ghost could still devour her in two bites if he had a mind to.

"He will not hurt me," says Jewel. "But if he did... to die helping a friend in need is far better than to sit safely and do nothing."

When they have Ghost's wounds as clean as they can manage, Tormund and Brienne take Ghost's back legs and Edmund his front, with Jon holding the wolf's head. Jon thinks it best if he is where Ghost can see him and smell him, and if he does bite someone Jon would rather it be him than the others. "He will fight you hard," Jon warns them again. "Don't let go, no matter what he does."

It isn't the first prick of the needle that wakes Ghost. Susan, trying to be gentle or not realizing how thick Ghost's skin is or both, had not pushed hard enough to get the needle through the wolf's tough hide and the needle doesn't penetrate. When she pushes harder, wedging the back end of the needle into the thick leather thimble on her finger so she can put her strength behind it, Ghost yelps and scrabbles at the rough floorboards with his claws, fighting desperately to get to his feet and escape. "Hold him," Jon grits out, as Ghost fights them with all his might. He has never heard Ghost make such a sound the whole time he's known him, a miserable, fearful whine that breaks Jon's heart. 

_It's all right, Ghost._ Jon is not sure if he is whispering it or only thinking it. _We're only trying to help you. It will be over soon._

If Ghost had been whole, even the four of them would not have been able to hold him down against his struggles. But the wolf has lost so much blood that he only has the strength to fight them a little while and then he gives up, whimpering softly and twitching every time Susan pushes the needle into his flesh or pulls the thread through it. Jon feels every bite of the needle and every tug of the thread just as sharply as if it was his own flesh being stitched, and by the end of it he is not sure whether the whimpers come from him or Ghost or both.

Finally, the stitching is done. Susan puts aside the needle and thread and takes up a long strip of cloth to try to bandage the wound as best she can, but Dalmula approaches, passing her a small clay jar of a soft, creamy pink ointment. "Put it on afore ye bandage it. Most like it'll heal it faster, if 'e don't lick it off first. Won't hurt 'em none if he does, though." 

Susan looks at Jon, asking his permission, and he gives it with a nod. She scoops out some of the oinment and carefully dots it all along the line of stitches she's just made. It's cool and soothing and Jon feels that too, just as he feels Ghost relax a little in his arms. Then she wraps the strip of bandage around him and it's done.

"Now we just have to wait," she says.

"I'm not leaving him alone." Jon strokes Ghost's head and neck, trying to soothe him and help him rest. He isn't whimpering anymore, but he is still hurting badly.

"No, of course not."

" 'e shouldn't be out in th'cold," Dalmula says grudgingly. "Keep 'im in 'ere with ye for now, by the fire. Out, the rest o'ye. It's still me home for a few more days and ye're all bringin' in the filth on yer boots." She shoos most of them back outside, leaving Jon and Susan with Ghost by the fire.

*****

Tyrion has taken to reading late into the night during his time in Narnia. The library of Cair Paravel is well-stocked, as any decent castle's library should be, and as it is a world that is brand new to Tyrion, the books in it are brand new to him as well. A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone, and Tyrion intends to keep his mind sharp.

Tonight he reads one of several books of Narnian history. This particular chapter tells the story of King Gale, a king of Narnia who lived some seven hundred years ago, and defeated a dragon that was terrorizing the Lone Islands. In return for his defeat of the dragon, the people of the Lone Islands chose him as their Emperor, and the kings and queens of Narnia added Emperor (or _Empress_ ) of the Lone Islands to their titles from that time forward. It's an absorbing story, and he is so caught up in it that he almost misses the soft knock at his door.

"Come in," he says, putting the book aside. It is a good thing he is still seated and did not go to the door himself, because he might have fainted with surprise to see Sansa at his door, clad in a thick nightrobe and carrying a lit taper. "Sansa?" he says, climbing down from his chair. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," she says, closing the door behind her. "No. Not really. But yes. I need to talk to you."

"Of course." He'd been sitting in one of the chairs by the fire; he sits again and gestures for Sansa to take the other. "What is it?"

"Are we friends, Tyrion?" She puts the taper on the table beside her and folds her hands in her lap. Her hair is in a thick braid that hangs over her shoulder.

He had not expected such a blunt question. "I would like to think so," he says carefully. 

"Then I need to speak to you as my friend. Not… as someone else's Hand. I understand if you can't do that… you only have to say. I'm not asking you to be disloyal to Bran," she adds quickly. "You can tell him, if you want, when we get back."

Tyrion doesn't immediately respond. It would go against his duty as Bran's Hand not to keep the interests of the Six Kingdoms in mind at all times, but… he was married to Sansa, once. He had cloaked her in the colors of his house and brought her under his protection, poor as it was. Though he had not been truly able to protect her then, perhaps he can at least _help_ her now. "Then you can speak to me as a friend," he says finally. "We were married once, after all."

"All right." She smooths the thick blue wool of her nightrobe over her lap. "I've offered to create an alliance between Narnia and the North."

"I see," says Tyrion. "It seems wise."

"Narnia would give the North military support if we need it," she says. "Not that I fear Bran, or you, but… I'm thinking of the future."

"As you should." Bran will not be king of the Six Kingdoms forever, nor will Tyrion always be the Hand.

"But the North has nothing to offer Narnia in return," Sansa says. "At least, not until we have a strong fighting force again. The one thing that neither of us has that we need is an heir. So… I've offered marriage to Peter as part of the alliance."

Tyrion cannot believe it. Perhaps his disbelief shows on his face, because Sansa straightens in her chair a little, as if steeling herself for his reaction. "You don't approve," she says.

"I didn't say that," he assures her. "I'm… surprised."

"Because my last husband was so terrible you're surprised I'd ever want to marry again?"

"I didn't say that," he says again. But she's not entirely wrong. He has heard stories about Ramsay Bolton, and there are whispers about what he did--that he killed his father, that he fed his stepmother and newborn half-brother to his hounds, that he cut off Theon Greyjoy's cock and sent it to his father in a box. As for Sansa, well, Tyrion has made a tremendous effort not to listen to any of those whispers.

"You wouldn't be wrong to say it if you did, though." Her robe is trimmed in vair and she fidgets with the edge of it, avoiding Tyrion's eyes. 

"You don't sound very excited about the prospect of this marriage," Tyrion says. "Has Peter been unkind to you?"

"No," Sansa says. "He's been perfectly pleasant. Charming, even." 

Even his wretched nephew had occasionally managed to be charming, when he made the effort. _Very_ occasionally. "What did he say about the idea of marrying you?"

"He… seemed amenable to it."

"Amenable?" Peter Pevensie would have to be a blind stumbling fool not to want to marry someone like Sansa Stark. Since he does not think the Narnian king is blind, stumbling, or a fool, he suspects his reaction was something more positive than _amenable_.

"He has to speak to his brother and sisters about it, since they decide everything together, but I think he'll say yes." 

That hardly seems a ringing endorsement, though it could just be that Peter was shocked by the proposal or he was hesitant to commit to something formally before speaking with his siblings, since they are joint rulers of their realm. Tyrion can see the sense of it, if he looks at it objectively--it helps the North's standing and gives Sansa an ally with a strong military presence. In that way, it makes sense. But it grates on Tyrion that Sansa means to give herself to a man when she clearly has reservations about the whole thing. After having been forced to marry him, then Ramsay Bolton… well, he thinks Sansa ought to have a chance to marry someone she _wants_ to marry, not someone she _has_ to marry. "What do _you_ think about it?"

"Narnia would be a strong ally," she says. "And I need an heir, or what am I doing all this for anyway?"

That is another strong point in favor of the idea. "But what about _you_?" he asks quietly. "Is this really what _you_ want?"

"It doesn't really matter what I want," she says. "I have a duty to the North to provide for its future. Besides, my mother had never even met my father before they married and they came to love each other very much."

Tyrion is not sure why Sansa came to him with this. She seems uncertain about what she's set out to do, but he doesn't think she wants him to talk her _out_ of it. Yet he doesn't want to talk her _into_ giving herself to a man she hardly knows, even if that man is handsome, charming, king of a realm with more riches than hers and backed by this _Aslan_ (a being who even someone as jaded as Tyrion can see is something like a god, if there are any of those at all). He only saw Aslan one time, but it made such an impression on Tyrion that he thinks that someone made king on his authority cannot be the sort of man who would do Sansa any harm. 

So if Sansa wants him to talk her into it, he will. Tyrion wants her to be happy.

"I think he is an honorable man," Tyrion says. Even if he is a bit… rigid. "His siblings clearly love him, and he loves them as well. His servants have nothing but kind things to say about him. He seems a skilled warrior, and he's been a good host to us. I think if he meant to play us false, he would have done so long before now. So if you want to marry him to hold your alliance together, I think he can make you happy." Happier than Tyrion could, certainly. 

"Do you think so?"

"I do."

It seems to reassure her. Her shoulders relax a bit, and her expression softens. "I hope so." 

Tyrion hopes so too. He only wishes he didn't feel so grudging about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that in the book, Ghost never makes a sound, but this fic is mostly based in show canon and he does make a noise now and then (when he growled at the guys picking on Sam was especially good). Also, while Jon and Ghost's connection is much deeper in the books and Jon knows it, they didn't really go there in the show so he hasn't experienced a lot of what happened with Ghost in this chapter before.
> 
> Please don't worry about Ghost--I would never kill him off! He is the bestest boi.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who reads and comments--your comments mean a lot to me!


	13. Faith and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aslan brought us here," Peter says simply. "And charged us with the protection of the creatures that live here. There are men, too, as you've seen; mostly a few noble families who came here from Archenland for a bit of adventure or whose ancestors lived here years ago, but most of the Narnians are Animals and mystical creatures like the Centaurs and Fauns and Dryads. If we didn't protect them, the Telmarines and Calormenes and the giants of Ettinsmoor and so many others from the lands across the sea would take the Narnians as slaves and use them for their own purposes. Make them curiosities in traveling shows or set them to work in their fields or mines or what have you as if they were ordinary animals. But they aren't ordinary. They have thought and free will just like you and I do."
> 
>  _Perhaps they have more free will than you and I do,_ Sansa thinks.

When the Eagle comes from the north with news that the free folk have been found, Sansa is relieved, though the relief is short-lived when he goes on to say that Ghost has been injured defending Jon Snow and Queen Susan from a bear attack. 

"Will he be all right?" Sansa asks. "Was he badly hurt? Is Jon all right?"

"The wolf was hurt quite badly, Your Majesty," Swiftalon says, "but he is on the mend and expected to recover, though it will take some time. Jon Snow and Queen Susan are unharmed. Her Majesty wonders if Queen Lucy has returned?"

"Not yet," Peter says. "Or I would send her cordial north with you when you go back. It would be the least we could do for him, for saving my sister's life."

"I believe it was Jon Snow who dealt the killing blow, Your Majesty," says the Eagle, "but the wolf made it possible."

"I see. Did my brother or sister give you an idea when the expedition might make their way home?"

"Within the week, Your Majesty. There are a number of elderly women among the free folk who are not strong enough to ride. They are building wagons in which they may travel, and that will slow them down considerably, but Thorntail and I will bring regular updates."

"Thank you, Swiftalon," says Peter. "Please go and rest a while, but come to me before you leave again. I will have a message for you to deliver."

"Of course, Your Majesty." The Eagle bows and flies away.

"I ought to go to the free folk camp," Sansa says, "and let them know the others have been found and will be joining them soon." To sit and wait as long as they have must be frustrating, and she thinks they might welcome the news. The last few times she has visited, she has had nothing new to report.

"Might I join you? I know you know the way," he says, "but it's a nice day, and we might go for a ride, after we go to the free folk."

Sansa has no objections to this--in fact, some time alone with Peter might give her a chance to be less nervous around him--so she goes to change into something more suited for riding. After that, she decides to find Tyrion to tell him where she's going and the news from the messenger.

"I thought I might find you here," she says, when she finds him in the library. 

"How clever of you," Tyrion says, looking up from his book. A goblet of wine is on the table beside him, but little of it has been drunk. "All of these rooms, yet you found me so easily."

"It seemed the most likely place." She nods at his book. "What are you reading?"

"More Narnian history. It's quite fascinating, really. Did you know that the first king of Archenland was the younger son of the fifth king of Narnia, and that Calormen was originally settled by outlaws from Archenland?"

"I did not know that," Sansa admits. But if she's to marry Peter, and one of their children will one day rule Narnia after Peter, then perhaps she ought to learn as much about it as she can. "Let me know when you're finished with it, and I'll read it."

"I will." Tyrion gives her a look that she thinks from any other man might almost be a leer, but from Tyrion it simply looks… appreciative, for lack of a better word. His voice softens a bit when he speaks again. "You look lovely. Doing something special today?"

That makes her blush where his look had not, and she presses her hands against the front of her dress, a soft grey wool for riding that somehow manages to be pretty and practical at the same time. Peter had asked Susan's ladies-in-waiting to make it for her; one of them had copied the Stark sigil from the banners of Sansa's guards and embroidered a clever design of it along the modest neckline with white silk thread and a hint of seed pearls. It's a lovely dress, and a thoughtful gift, but it's strange to see the Northern colors in a dress of a style that could easily have been from the dressmakers in King's Landing. "No. Yes, I mean, thank you. Peter and I are going to see the free folk and then go for a ride. There's been a messenger from the north--Jon's found the missing free folk, and they should be ready to make the journey by the end of the week. So, we should be able to go home before too long. I thought I'd let them know."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'm ready to go home, though I will rather miss the excellent hospitality we've enjoyed here."

Sansa laughs. "So will I. I swear I've gained a stone. Mrs. Beaver heard that I liked her lemon tarts and she won't stop making them." They've had them for tea for the last three days. 

"And the blueberry fool, and the strawberry scones, and the hot--"

"--chocolate," Sansa finishes, and they laugh together. 

"Well. Enjoy your ride," Tyrion says. "I'm sure that Mrs. Beaver will have another glorious dessert planned for tonight's supper."

Peter meets her in the yard with their horses already saddled and waiting. Two of Sansa's guards and two of Peter's ride in their wake as they leave the castle for the free folk camp. It is just half a mile west of the castle and takes no time at all to get there, then only a few minutes to pass along the news from the north. 

Then they ride along the river for a little while. It's a lovely ride. In the weeks they've been at Cair Paravel, spring has come to Narnia, and the land is much greener than it was when they arrived; the grass grows thick and lush and the trees are filling out with new leaves. On their way _to_ Cair Paravel before, they had seen almost no one as they traveled with the free folk and the centaurs, but now there is someone new to see at every turn, and Peter often stops to talk with them. 

They come upon a family of Beavers building a dam at a turn of the river. Peter compliments their ingenuity, which leads to them being invited in to the Beavers' house for tea. It is a very _small_ house, and Sansa has to duck her head so as not to hit it on the doorpost. She is very afraid she will break the tiny chair at the Beavers' table she is given to sit in, and when she looks across the table to see Peter with his long legs folded almost up to his chin, trying to balance his tea cup on his knees, it is all she can do not to burst out laughing. It is only when she sees that the Beavers are very earnest and eager to make a good impression on not only their king but _her_ as well that she gets hold of her giggles. She compliments the food, which is delicious, and their home, which is utterly charming, with tiny lace curtains at the windows, an orange checked cloth on the table, and a neat braided rug on the pristinely clean floor, and both Beavers puff up a little with pride at her words.

Just past the Beavers' house a family of Ducks walks along the riverbank: a mother Duck, a father Duck, and seven baby Ducks. The little ones are so young they have not yet grown their flight feathers, but are still covered in fluffy yellow down. Introductions are made, and each of the seven baby Ducks tries to bow when they are presented to Peter. They are generally unsuccessful with this maneuver, but the smallest one, named Puddles, trips over his tiny webbed feet, falls over, and nearly rolls right into the river. Sansa quickly scoops him up and sets him upright again before he can roll too far away. This sends the mother Duck into a flurry of gratitude and it takes Sansa some time to assure her that she took no offense whatsoever at this "lapse in deportment" (as the mother Duck put it) and it was no trouble at all to keep the little one from rolling away. It turns out that the family was on their way to give their children their very first swimming lesson, and Sansa and Peter are invited to stay and observe. Sansa thinks that having their very first swimming lesson observed by their king might make the little ones very nervous; however, while they were clumsy and awkward on the riverbank with their bows, they all take to the water as quickly and easily as a wolf to snow. Soon even little Puddles is paddling along splendidly in the gentle current close to shore with a look of pride on his small yellow face.

"I must know," Sansa says later, when their horses are hobbled in the shade and Sansa and Peter sit on a fallen log nearby, their guards at a discreet distance, "how four humans came to be rulers of a land filled with Talking Animals." The Centaurs who had apprehended them when they first came to Narnia had been intimidating, but the Animals they've seen today have been utterly charming and sweet. This part of Narnia seems like something out of a crib tale.

"Aslan brought us here," Peter says simply. "And charged us with the protection of the creatures that live here. There are men, too, as you've seen; mostly a few noble families who came here from Archenland for a bit of adventure or whose ancestors lived here years ago, but most of the Narnians are Animals and mystical creatures like the Centaurs and Fauns and Dryads. If we didn't protect them, the Telmarines and Calormenes and the giants of Ettinsmoor and so many others from the lands across the sea would take the Narnians as slaves and use them for their own purposes. Make them curiosities in traveling shows or set them to work in their fields or mines or what have you as if they were ordinary animals. But they aren't ordinary. They have thought and free will just like you and I do."

 _Perhaps they have more free will than you and I do,_ Sansa thinks. "Narnia is very different than Westeros--the North or the Six Kingdoms."

"I've thought as much, from what you've told me," Peter says. "But I'm looking forward to seeing the North, and Winterfell. I expect your lords of the North will want to meet me and decide if they feel I'm a suitable husband for their queen before we marry."

"Yes. It will help, I think, that we're making it clear that you will not rule in the North any more than I would rule here. When Jon was king he bent the knee to a foreign queen and that… was not well received." The dragons had scared the smallfolk and intimidated the lords, and Daenerys had made no effort to assure them that they were in no danger from her or her dragons or her Dothraki; she had arrived as a conqueror, not as an ally.

"I'm not asking you to bend the knee, Sansa," Peter says. "Nor do I expect it from your people. This is a partnership. Not a conquest."

"A partnership." Sansa looks down at her hands in her lap. "I want that. I've never had anything like that before."

Peter shifts on the log beside her, reaching over to cover her hands with one of his. "You don't need to tell me about your second husband if you would rather not," he says. "You told me he was cruel and that says enough. You don't have to be afraid of me."

Ramsay had been perfectly pleasant and charming at first. He had had manners that he could put on as easily as pulling on a pair of boots, when he wanted to, but beneath those false courtesies he was sadistic and cruel. He took more pleasure in hurting people than in anything else, in making them very unhappy, and it seemed he took his greatest pleasure in making _her_ unhappy most of all. There had been hints of it before they were wed, though--not from Ramsay himself, but from everyone around him. From what he'd done to Theon, from how the servants had slunk about in the shadows, afraid to speak, from Myranda and her sly comments and veiled threats. But she has seen none of those kinds of hints at Cair Paravel in the last weeks or in their journey through this part of Narnia today. None of the servants seem afraid of Peter or his siblings--in fact, they dote on them, especially the cheerful Mrs. Beaver--and the Animals they met today were eager to welcome him into their homes and introduce him to their children.

"I don't want to be afraid of you," Sansa says quietly.

"It's an easy thing for me to say you don't have to be afraid," Peter says, "but not as easy for you to actually do it. I will do everything I can to earn your trust. If there's something you need, you only have to say."

"This helps. Spending time with you, talking to you. Especially away from--"

"--the castle?" he finishes.

"Yes. I liked having tea with the Beavers and watching the Ducks at their swimming lesson." Watching Peter at the little table at the Beavers' house had given her the giggles, it is true, but it had also reminded her a bit of how her lord father used to ask different of his men to dine with him in turn, so he might ask them about their concerns and hear what they had to say. It tells her something about Peter that they felt comfortable inviting him into their home.

"I liked it too. You're good company."

Sansa looks up at Peter then, and is reassured by how he looks at her. It isn't love, of course. They don't know each other well enough for that. But it is something like affection, and genuine interest and _kindness_ , and for a moment Sansa wonders if he will try to kiss her. She freezes at the thought, not sure what she will do if he does. She has never had a kiss from a man that she actually enjoyed, and is not really sure how one goes about it properly, in a way that both people involved might enjoy. What if she is bad at it? Or what if he kisses her and she finds she cannot bear it at all, even if it is good?

Peter does not try to kiss her. He gets to his feet, taking her hands in his to help her to her feet. "We should go back to the castle," he says, squeezing her hands a little. "Mrs. Beaver will be very cross with us if we are late for dinner."

Sansa isn't sure if she's relieved or disappointed that he didn't try.

*****

Swiftalon returns from Cair Paravel with the news for Edmund and Susan that Lucy (and thus her cordial) has still not returned from her mission, as well as a sealed scroll which he delivers to Jon. The scroll surprises Susan; they are used to sending messages directly through their messengers and not written down, save for some sensitive information. She supposes this must be the case now.

Jon sits with Ghost and Susan by the fire in Dalmula's hut, where he has stayed by Ghost's side for most of the last few days. At first it was because he feared the wolf would die; now, it is simply to keep Ghost still and quiet so he will rest as much as possible before they leave, and not injure himself further. "It's from my sister," he says, showing Susan the grey wax seal with a wolf's head sigil pressed into it. He breaks the seal and reads; as he does, his eyes go round with surprise.

"Is something wrong?" Susan asks, petting Ghost lightly as Jon reads. 

"Wrong? No." He reads it again, squinting a little in the low light from the fireplace. "Just surprising. Sansa says she wants to create an alliance between the North and Narnia."

"That makes sense," Susan says. She doesn't think it particularly surprising, though; only smart. Narnia has much to offer in an alliance, and would benefit from the support of a land as large as the North of Westeros.

"Yes. I was thinking of it myself not long ago, and meant to suggest it to Sansa when we got back to Cair Paravel. No, the surprising part is that she's offered to marry your brother Peter as part of it."

"Why is that surprising?" Sansa is a queen: young, lovely, and unmarried. It would be even more important for her to wed and have children than it will be for Susan or Lucy. And though Peter can be a bit stiff at times, he's handsome and good-hearted, with a reputation for leading men in battle, and more than a few kings and princes from across the sea have offered their daughters to him in marriage. "She will have to marry someone and have children to secure her rule. I assume that is as true in Westeros as anywhere else."

"Yes, it is. Only…" Jon puts the letter aside. "I think I told you that Sansa has been married before, and that her husband was cruel. Not just unpleasant, but cruel. I suppose I thought she might not ever want to marry again."

Susan wonders why Peter did not send word to her and Edmund of this impending alliance. Perhaps he is waiting until they and Lucy return. "From what you told me, I think Sansa's husband was worse than the man I almost married," she says. "But he was awful enough. He behaved as though I was his property, or would be when we were married, and he could do with me whatever he liked. And what he _liked_ was to make other people very unhappy. I was able to get away before he could do much more than frighten me, but even then, I wondered if I would ever be able to trust a man again, or trust in my own judgement anymore."

"But you trust me, I think."

"I do." Susan thinks he trusts her, too, at least a little, which must be difficult for him, after what happened with Daenerys. He could not have kissed her the way he did in the forest without trust; he had kissed her with a kind of single-mindedness that made her feel as though there was nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing, nothing else in the world he was thinking about except her. Even now, days later, it makes her burn to think on it and she feels her cheeks flush.

But that was only kissing. Other things take far more trust. Jon does not have to say out loud that he's too bruised and battered by everything that happened before he came to Narnia for her to see that he is not quite ready to move past it. Tormund told him he ought to try living his life as if he is alive. Susan thinks he will, when he's ready. 

"Perhaps your brother has found a way to earn Sansa's trust, then."

"Perhaps. He's a good man. Sometimes we don't get along," she admits, "but he _means_ well, even if he seems a bit stubborn. He's brave and loyal and kind." And she knows Peter would never, ever be cruel to a woman. "He would be good to her."

"If there's to be an alliance between our lands," Jon says, "then… " He seems reluctant to put words to what he's thinking, but his expression softens a little for the first time since the fight with the bear. 

"You would always be welcome in Narnia." She says it carefully; she too is reluctant to put too many words to this newly-formed idea, as if too much thought or too many words will drown it out before it has a chance to take root. 

Jon touches her hand for a moment, his fingers light against her skin, before turning the talk to plans for the journey south, but Susan cannot stop thinking on it. The thought that Jon taking the free folk back to Westeros might not truly be _goodbye_ is still at the forefront of Susan's mind when she goes to sleep that night, such that when she's awakened some hours later by him whispering her name, she thinks perhaps she is dreaming.

"Jon?"

"Come outside," he whispers. "I need to speak with you."

Susan pulls on her cloak and boots and follows him outside, where Edmund is waiting for them. The moon is full tonight, and it's bright enough that she can see a line of worry creasing Edmund's brow. "What's wrong?"

"I told Edmund about Peter and Sansa's proposed alliance, and then I had a thought that troubled me." Jon has Sansa's message in hand, and he looks over it, frowning. "I won't share all she writes here," he says, "because she asks my advice, and as the two of you will advise Peter in it… well, it wouldn't truly be fair. But....

"Narnia would send troops to aid the North in time of need, that's common enough for an ally. Sansa and Peter would remain rulers of their own lands; he wouldn't rule the North and she wouldn't rule here. But he would go and live with her a time until he's got children on her. Also not unheard of." Jon looks up from the letter. "These women we met here--I last saw them four years ago, five at the most. But they insist they've been here for near on twenty years. Ysmene was a babe in arms then, now she's a woman grown."

"When they described the snow and how the whole land was covered in it for years--it sounds the way things were during the reign of the White Witch, and that ended fifteen years ago," Susan says. "They wouldn't have known it isn't the way things are supposed to be here, coming from your world. They would have thought a years long winter to be the usual thing."

"And there are no children. If they'd only been here five years, some would still be children. Older children, perhaps, but still children." 

Susan rubs at her temples, trying to think. "I don't remember very much about our lives before we came here," she admits, "but I remember--we were exploring a house, the four of us. We came upon a room with nothing in it but a wardrobe so we kept going. Lucy was gone for just a moment, then came out of the room saying she'd been to another land through the wardrobe and that she'd been gone for hours. She'd come here, of course, but at the time we thought her quite mad or telling tales or both. She had only been gone for the time it takes to turn round, but she insisted she'd been gone for hours." Susan doesn't know why she has never thought of this before. It really had felt insignificant in comparison to everything that happened after that. 

"But Lucy came again, and I followed," Edmund says, "and the third time it was all of us, and neither of those times did it seem that much more time passed here than it did there."

Susan feels as though she is missing something very important, a conversation she ought to have remembered but now cannot. It all seems so very long ago, the memories of everything before Aslan quite faded and indistinct. "What if… if Peter goes to live with Sansa for a time, and he thinks he's gone six months in the North but it's six _years_ here?"

Edmund seems to be struggling with the memory as well, and it has set him to pacing. "Or we send an army to the North to aid them," he says, "and they're gone a year and come back and it's been so long everyone they know here has grown old and died? Or if Sansa asks us for aid and somehow it--she thinks we're coming to help and we don't because…"

"Then we'll have to find out before Sansa and Peter go through with it," Jon says.

The only way to find out will be for someone to go to Westeros and return to Narnia. Susan knows without asking that Jon will insist that that someone is him.


	14. Time Won't Go Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Susan kisses his cheek. His words might sound like the words of some busybody or interferer if they came from anyone else, but she knows Edmund only speaks out of concern and love for her. And she loves him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from a great Snow Patrol song that came out a few weeks before I wrote this chapter. It's very fitting for Jon and Susan, especially, but works for Sansa and Peter as well. Enjoy!

Just as Jon predicted, by the end of the week the women are in agreement that they ought to return to Westeros. It's a clear, cool morning when they begin the journey south, with the oldest of the women in the wagons, the next oldest on horseback, and everyone else on foot. Ghost is not yet strong enough to walk very far, so he rides in one of the wagons, curled up on a bearskin. Tormund and Edmund had gone into the woods after Ghost was patched up and returned with the bear's pelt, which Tormund gave to Jon several days later, cleaned and tanned. It's a macabre trophy, but if anyone has earned it, it would be Ghost.

Jon walks alongside the wagon to make sure Ghost stays put and Susan, who also gave up her horse to one of the older women, walks along side him. Jon had protested, saying that as a lady and a queen she ought to ride, but she had given him a withering look and said, "I am far more capable of walking than some," and that had been the end of that conversation. 

When Tyrion had first told him about finding these missing free folk and taking them home, Jon had imagined he would be relieved when he found them and looking forward to leaving. But he isn't. Relieved that he'd found them, yes, but not looking forward to leaving. The disturbing idea that something might be amiss with time between the two worlds is not helping.

He did not mention anything about this disturbing idea in his reply to Sansa. The only hint of it was a suggestion not to commit to anything before he had a chance to speak to her about it in person--a carefully phrased suggestion, because who is he to advise her, having given up the throne of the north himself? Jon wasn't sure he could explain it on paper, anyway, without sounding even more ludicrous than explaining Talking Animals would sound to someone who had never seen them before.

Somehow his worry that something is amiss with time hasn't affected his feelings where Susan is concerned, even if he thinks it may spell trouble for what Sansa and Peter are planning. In fact, the uncertainty seems to have only sharpened his desire for her beyond what good sense ought to allow. When he'd first read Sansa's letter, he had let the idea that there would be a connection between the North and Narnia give him a little hope that something might be possible, a little hope that quickly snowballed into something greater. Realizing something was amiss should have stopped that hope it in its tracks. 

It hasn't. 

So as he walks with Susan by the wagon, sometimes he lets his fingers brush her hand. It was truly an accident at first. They were walking so close together it couldn't be helped, and the brief contact did nothing to quell his thoughts. It simply set him to thinking about being with her in the forest, when she'd laid down on his cloak with him and they'd kissed and kissed until he had not known up from sideways, and wondering when, if ever, they might have an opportunity to do it again. 

The second time, Susan had pushed her cloak back a little, warmed from the sun and the exertion of walking, and he'd brushed her hand on purpose. She'd looked over at him in surprise and smiled a little, her blue eyes soft as summer rain, and for a moment he felt utterly lost again.

But the third time… the third time he brushes his hand against hers, Susan catches his hand and holds it lightly. They're walking near the rear of the group and no one is truly paying them any mind, and it's… comforting, in a way, to just walk along holding her hand as if it's a perfectly normal thing to do. An _ordinary_ thing. Jon finds the ordinariness is the most appealing thing about it; his life has been anything but ordinary, and the simple pleasure of holding hands with a beautiful woman has a surprising appeal. 

When Edmund joins them some time later, he thinks she might draw her hand away, but she doesn't, and though Edmund gives them a long look, he says nothing about it. Instead he relays the lastest news from Rainclaw, who says that there is a likely spot a few hours ahead for them to make camp for the night.

And that is how they travel for the next few days: walking close in the daytime, sitting close by their cookfires in the evening--always close, but not close _enough_ for Jon's liking. It is maddening. He dares not touch her more than holding her hand, when they are near the others, and even that makes him skittish at times. But walking beside her in the day and sitting beside her in the evenings gives him ample time to notice the small things, like the spray of freckles across her nose, the way her cheeks go pink when Tormund makes one of his cruder jests, or the tiny gap between her front teeth which only shows when she truly smiles. 

What would it be like to stay here in Narnia, where no one knows that he is a Targaryen? Where no one cares about the Iron Throne or who his parents were or that he calls himself a bastard, where no one but Susan and Edmund know that he bent the knee to Daenerys and then killed her--a deed that seems to matter very little either to Susan or Edmund, though perhaps for different reasons. 

Here he is simply Jon Snow and nothing else. Not the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, or the former King in the North, or a queenslayer or a kinslayer or a bastard. 

Here, he could start again. Here, where no one knows he is a Targaryen--where no one ever _need_ know he is a Targaryen, as the name means nothing here--he could have the sort of life that would not be possible in Westeros, even beyond the Wall. 

They will spend an extra night at Fangdor on the way south, Susan and Edmund decide after conferring with the twins. It will give everyone an opportunity to rest, and, if Lord Crotag is as generous as he was on their first visit, a chance to resupply themselves. Jon knows they ought to use that time to decide how they will test their suspicions about the behavior of time between Narnia and Westeros, and he plans to do so. But he wants an opportunity to be alone with Susan again as well.

He fears their time is running out.

*****

They've taken to riding most days, after Peter has conducted the day's business. Sansa has always thought herself a decent rider, but has not necessarily seen riding as anything more than a convenient method of getting from one place to another. These rides, though, are less about traveling and more about enjoying herself. When is the last time she had _fun_ at anything? She thinks back, and back, and back some more, and cannot remember. Perhaps it was as far back as the tourney held in her lord father's honor in King's Landing… and that seems a lifetime ago. 

A lifetime that happened to someone else. 

In Narnia, though, it seems her days are an endless string of good times. One day, Sansa and Peter go berry picking in the meadows to the south of Cair Paravel, filling their baskets with plump pink berries until their fingers are sticky with juice. Another day they go fishing in a stream to the north. Peter shows her how to bait her hook and cast her line into the stream. This is not entirely successful; the first time she baits the hook she drops the bait and the second time she pokes her finger with the hook. When she does manage to get her hook baited without stabbing her fingers, she gets her line caught on some bushes near the water's edge. Peter is a very patient teacher and though he laughs as he untangles her line from the bushes, Sansa never feels as though he's laughing _at_ her, only _with_ her. Eventually she manages to catch one very small trout. Peter congratulates her on her catch but says it's too small to keep, and carefully disentangles the fish from the hook so he can put it back into the stream. 

One morning he takes her out early, well before sunrise, in a small boat. Not the great galleon she'd seen in the harbor (Peter told her that ship was the _Splendor Hyaline_ ), but a little boat only big enough for a few people, with oars and a sail and a rudder. There's a light breeze and it's enough to take them easily out of sight of the shore before long. Sansa wonders what in the world could be far enough out that they lose sight of the shore but not so far out that they need to take a proper ship, or that they needed to leave well before sunrise to see. When she asks him what they're doing, he only says, "Just wait. You'll see," and extinguishes the lantern at the prow of the boat.

So Sansa waits, and waits, and just when she is about to grow thoroughly bored with waiting and bobbing up and down in this little boat, the sun begins to rise just over the horizon. The pale light spreads slowly across the sky and as it does, she hears the faint sound of singing from across the water. Peter catches her eye and holds a finger to his lips. It's unnecessary, though; the singing begins to swell, a single melodic line that soon splits into a two-part canon, the voices weaving in and out of each other and punctuated by the occasional splash, and now Sansa wouldn't dare make a sound to interrupt and spoil it. As the sun peeks over the horizon it's soon light enough for her to see who is singing: a ring of mermaids, swaying at the surface of the water in time to their melody, occasionally dipping below the waves and back to the surface again in a carefully choreographed sequence. Their song slips back into a single melody, sung by all the mermaids together, haunting in its loveliness, then one by one, the mermaids stop singing and slip beneath the water again until they are all gone and the lap of the gentle waves against the side of the boat is the only sound.

"Peter, that was lovely," Sansa says, when it feels as though it is all right to speak. 

"They sing to the sunrise each morning," Peter says. "Unless there's a storm. I thought you might like to see it. I apologize for not explaining it better when I said we were coming out," he says with a grin that's a bit sheepish. "I thought it might ruin the effect."

"No, it was wonderful. Thank you for bringing me out here to see it."

"You're welcome." Peter rolls up his sleeves and takes up the oars to row them back to the shore. He has nice arms, Sansa thinks, which is not something she has ever noticed about a man before, and she watches him a bit as he rows. When they reach the shore, he rows until the boat runs aground, then jumps out of the boat with a splash. The water is nearly ankle-deep. "Shall I help you out?"

"Thank you." Sansa stands, and Peter catches her at the waist, lifting her easily out of the boat and setting her at the water's edge. When he puts her down, he doesn't immediately let go of her; Sansa thinks for a moment that he's just ensuring that she's steady on her feet, but when another few moments pass and he's still got his hands at her waist, her heart begins to race. 

"You don't need to be afraid of me, Sansa," he says softly. There's nothing in his face but honesty and kindness, and a sort of _earnestness_ she isn't used to seeing from a man. 

"I'm not." She isn't afraid of Peter himself; what she _is_ afraid of is more difficult to put into words.

"Good." He touches her cheek, his fingertips light against her skin. "I know it isn't… it's a political arrangement, but I think it will be easier if we have some fondness for each other."

"It will."

He's so close that it would be easy to lean up on her toes a bit and kiss him, if she were so inclined; it almost seems as if he's waiting for her to do so. And she wants to. He is so handsome and kind and thoughtful that there is simply no reason not to. 

But she does not.

Peter steps back after a moment, offering her his arm. The breeze coming off the water ruffles his blond hair and he smiles, looking for all the world every inch the handsome prince Sansa imagined she might marry one day. "Come. Let's go back up to the castle." 

He does not seem bothered by her hesitance at all, but as Sansa takes his arm and walks with him up the beach, she cannot help but wonder if it will eventually be a problem. 

*****

Susan had sent the Eagles ahead to Fangdor a few days ago to alert Lord Crotag and Lady Agnir to their impending arrival; so when they arrive they're greeted at the gate and escorted up to the castle straight away. Dalmula and Tilla had expressed reluctance at the idea of spending the night in a giant's castle, a reluctance Susan had asked Swiftalon and Thorntail to tactfully convey to Lady Agnir and inquire if other arrangements might be made; as a consequence, a group of spacious, well-appointed tents have been set up for the free folk women at the foot of the motte, just beyond the shadow of the keep. Up in the keep, the rooms the giants offer Susan and the rest of the party are the same as the ones they'd stayed in before. They've acquired a few human-sized furnishings in the interim, however, and when they sit down to dinner that night there is a table and chairs of the proper size set just beside the giants' table, with appropriate plates, cutlery, and glasses.

Edmund and Susan and the others thank Lady Agnir profusely for her hospitality. Susan takes it as a sign of improved relations between the humans and the giants that Lady Agnir would go to the trouble of making her home more comfortable for her guests even though they will only be there a few days at most, and takes special care to compliment everything that's been provided for them. It isn't difficult; Lady Agnir keeps a good table, and seems to enjoy entertaining guests, even if they are humans and not giants.

After supper, when everyone prepares to disperse for the evening, Edmund catches her arm. "Could I have a word, Su?" he asks, and of course Susan will not say no. She follows him out onto a balcony overlooking a lovely courtyard, though the railing around the balcony is taller than they are and the wrought-iron bars of it, though fanciful, make Susan feel a bit like she's in a prison.

"I'm only going to ask this of you once, and I ask it not because I don't trust you, but because I have no wish to see you hurt," he says, getting to the point straight away. "Are you quite sure you know what you are doing with Jon Snow?"

Susan is only surprised he hasn't asked this question of her sooner. She and Jon have walked nearly the entire way from the Wild Lands of the North to Fangdor side-by-side, talking all the while, sitting with each other at supper each evening and indeed spending nearly every moment of the day together. If Edmund had not noticed it, he would be the most unobservant person she knows--and that is not Edmund's way. "No," she says. "I'm not sure. I don't even know what I'm doing with him, to be completely honest. And I don't think he knows either. All I know is that I care for him."

"And I think he cares for you," Edmund says. "I like Jon Snow. We've not seen him in his own land, as we did your last suitor, but I think we've been with him long enough to see his true colors, and I believe they are good. I would have no objection to him, except--"

"--except for this business with time between Westeros and Narnia," she finishes. Though she has not spoken of it again since Jon told her and Edmund of his suspicions, it has been on her mind nearly every moment of their journey. 

"Yes. I would not want you to pin your hopes on a man who could leave Narnia for a month and come back five years later, even if through no fault of his own."

"Then we'll have to see if that's true," Susan says.

"I hope we can. As for Peter and Sansa… well. It will be even worse for them, if Peter means to go back and forth. It may not be possible. What I mean to say--and this is the last I'll speak on it, I promise--is that you should be careful, Susan. That's all."

Susan kisses his cheek. His words might sound like the words of some busybody or interferer if they came from anyone else, but she knows Edmund only speaks out of concern and love for her. And she loves him for it. "I will try," she promises. 

A shaft of light streams from an open door onto the balcony, and Susan turns to see Jon standing in the doorway. Silhouetted against the light from inside the keep, with his black fur-trimmed cloak on his shoulders, he seems broader and taller than Susan knows him to be. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You aren't," says Edmund. "I was just leaving. Good night, Su." He kisses Susan's cheek and crosses to the door. "Good night, Jon."

"Good night." Jon watches the door close behind Edmund, then crosses the balcony to Susan. "Are you sure I wasn't interrupting anything?"

"You weren't," Susan assures him. "We were speaking of you."

Jon looks surprised. "Nothing bad, I hope?"

"Of course not." She decides to be direct and honest. They have little time left to squander on speaking delicately around things. "He asked me if I knew what I was about with you, and I said no, I don't. I only know that I care for you. Then he asked me to be careful. That's all."

"I see."

"But I think it's a bit too late."

"Late for what?"

"Being careful." 

Jon looks down, then out over the balcony, as if he's trying to gather his thoughts. Susan wishes she hadn't said anything, that they could just go on being close as they've been on the road these last days and weeks, but that is a bit cowardly of her. All they have been doing is putting off the inevitable. Either Jon will go back to Westeros, or he will stay in Narnia. What right does she have to ask him to stay in Narnia, though? Absolutely none. 

So she waits, letting him get his thoughts in order. 

"I've been thinking," he says presently, taking her hands, meeting her eyes. "That here in Narnia, no one knows about--what I've done. Who I am. None of it matters."

"That's true." Her heart feels like it's caught in her throat, fluttering like a little bird.

"So if I stayed…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but Susan nods; she knows what he means without him saying it. "You would be welcome in Narnia," she says quietly. "If you wanted."

Jon squeezes her hands. "I have to think on it," he says. "I don't know if I'm… if it's the right thing. It feels right. But just because I think it's right, that doesn't mean it is."

He doubts himself, Susan knows. And he can hardly be blamed for doubting, given the things he has done and the things that have happened to him. "You want to be sure," she says. "I know what it's like to doubt your own judgement. You want to be sure, and you want to know that you're sure so you can stop doubting yourself and not question everything you do forever."

"Aye. You know what I mean."

"I do."

Jon sighs and lets go her hands, sliding his arms around her waist to pull her close. They're of a height--he might be the slightest bit taller--and it's easy to fit herself close to him, her head on his shoulder. "It isn't fair to you for me to be unsure," he says quietly. "But I wanted you to know what I'm thinking."

"You feel the way you feel," Susan says, raising her head to look at him. "Whether it's 'fair' or not does not come into it. If you decide that returning to Westeros is better for you, then you must go home. But if you want to stay in Narnia…"

Jon cups her face in his hands. "It's what I want," he says, his voice low. "But I have to be sure."

She should not kiss him. It isn't right, Susan thinks, for her to do something that perhaps might influence him to make a decision he might not otherwise. But she _wants_ to kiss him, and so she does. She's been thinking about kissing him for so many days now that she wants it more than she wants her next breath, and when Jon kisses her back he seems to want the same thing. He kisses her deeply, his mouth hungry on hers and his fingers slipping into her hair. In a few steps he backs her against the wall of the balcony and she makes a little noise as his body presses against hers.

"Did I hurt you?" he says, his dark eyes round with concern.

"No," she whispers. "Kiss me again."

Rabadash had pressed her against a wall once to kiss her, but this is different, and she cannot truly say why. He had been rough with her, and Jon is not, but it is more than that; Rabadash had wanted to _frighten_ her with it, to intimidate her into doing whatever he wanted, whereas Jon simply wants _her_. That is how it seems to her, in any case. Presently she stops thinking about very much of anything or anyone else at all except Jon, the feel of his mouth on hers and his hands skimming the curves of her body. Even through the thick fabric of her dress she feels his touch so acutely he might as well have his hands on her bare skin, and she wants that more than anything. With the wall at her back there is little room to move except to press against him; when she does, he groans and pushes his thigh between hers and it's a delicious friction that she enjoys too much to be the slightest bit embarrassed about. He whispers her name against her mouth and she can only answer with a whimper, curling her fingers into his tunic beneath his cloak.

It is only when they hear the voices of two guards having a conversation in the courtyard below that they come back to their senses. Jon presses his face into her neck with a shuddering sigh, and she curls her fingers in hair and tries to steady herself. 

"One day I won't be able to stop," she warns him, skimming her fingers over his hair and along the back of his neck, her touch light.

"Aye," he whispers. "I know."

*****

The guard in the corridor outside Peter's room cannot hide his surprise at Sansa's request to see him. She supposes his surprise is warranted, given the lateness of the hour. "I've had a message from my brother in the north," she lies, putting on a face of concern, "and I thought it best to pass it along now, not in the morning." 

"Wait here please, Your Majesty," he says. "I'll see if he will receive you." He disappears into Peter's chamber, coming out a few moments later, holding the door for her to enter.

"Sansa? Is something wrong?" Peter has dressed hastily, his hair disheveled and his shirt askew and undone at the neck. It's an attractive look for him, she thinks.

She waits until the door closes behind the guard before speaking. "I hope you'll forgive me for telling a small lie," she says. "There's been no message. I wanted to speak with you, and I thought an urgent message might be the only acceptable reason for a lady to knock on your door in the middle of the night."

A little of the tension leaves his shoulders then, and he grins. "Yes, perhaps a small lie is for the best." His smile fades a bit as he adds, "Though something must be troubling you if you felt it couldn't wait until morning." 

"A little." 

"Then we should speak of it." 

Sansa spent quite a bit of time this evening tossing and turning and thinking about how she wanted to explain this to Peter. She never came to a satisfactory solution, and she has no better idea now. "You've been so kind," she says. "Courteous and chivalrous and all the things I used to imagine my future husband would be like."

"I've tried to be," he says. 

"And I'm glad for it," she adds, lest he get the idea that she _doesn't_ want that, or isn't grateful for it. "But the reason we're making this alliance is so we have heirs to come after us. And I…" Part of her is terribly embarrassed she even has to talk about this, but the other part of her refuses to blush. She refuses to be ashamed of what happened to her. It was not her fault. Ramsay is long dead, but she still refuses to give him the satisfaction of ruining this for her.

All of the men who hurt her are dead. Sansa has the rest of her life ahead of her, full of possibilities. She is the Queen in the North and she will not be frightened by ghosts.

Sansa stops speaking, takes a breath, and wills herself not to be ashamed of this. _I am a Stark of Winterfell. I will always be a Stark of Winterfell._ "My last husband was cruel to me in ways that make it difficult for me to think about being with another man," she says plainly.

Peter's expression softens a bit. Sansa is relieved to see there is no pity there, only concern. Concern she can bear, but not pity. "I see," he says quietly. "I thought...there have been times when I wanted to kiss you, but I didn't, because you seemed afraid of me. But it wasn't fear of me, was it?"

"Not exactly." Sansa doesn't fear Peter; she knows he will be kind to her. But she does fear being intimate with him.

"Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?" 

"Perhaps." She has thought on this quite a bit of late, and has decided that she will need to simply jump into it with both feet. "I think if I can work up the courage to kiss you once, it will be easier after that." And if she cannot even do that, it is better to know now than after they are wed.

She thinks another man might be offended by her saying she needs to gather her courage to kiss him, as if she finds him undesirable. But Peter does not seem to be offended; he only says, "It seems sensible." 

He steps closer, but Sansa puts her hand against his chest, keeping him at a distance for the time being. She can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the thin linen of his shirt. "Give me a moment," she says.

"Take all the moments you need," he says gently.

Sansa doesn't try to kiss him straight away. She's a little afraid again. Not of Peter himself, but the idea of kissing him and finding she doesn't actually like it, or worse yet, is repulsed by it, or that it only makes her think of Ramsay. Peter says nothing while she stands there with her palm resting against his chest. Ordinarily, she might wonder if he's troubled by her delay, but she's explained what's troubling her and he seems to understand, so she tries to put whatever he might or might not feel about it out of her mind for a moment. 

Peter's shirt is untucked, loose at the neck; she traces the v of it with her fingertips, daring to touch his skin a little as she does so. His breath comes quicker, but he doesn't move or lift a hand to touch her; and though he's watching her intently as she does this, he isn't scrutinizing her. It's almost encouraging, and that makes her feel a bit better. Sansa slides her fingers along the side of his neck and traces the line of his jaw, the faint stubble there that he'll shave away in the morning, and Peter tips his face into her touch. 

"Is it helping?" he asks.

"Yes." At the very least, it isn't hurting her, or scaring her, and that is something she's never had.

"Good."

She cups his cheek with her palm, and he closes his eyes then. Sansa is glad for that. With his eyes closed, Peter won't be able to see how nervous she is as she leans up to kiss him, her mouth soft and tentative against his. It might not perhaps be enough to count as a true kiss, but she likes it all the same. It's only when she dares to be a little bolder with her kiss that Peter touches her, resting his hands lightly at her waist, so gently that if she wasn't acutely aware of every little breath and every little movement that she might not notice his touch at all. 

It's a relief to discover that she likes kissing Peter Pevensie. She likes it very much. 

It's a bit like dancing, really, except that he's letting her lead; she has no real idea of what she's doing, but he seems not to mind at all. If she has an idea that it might be nice to touch him here or kiss him there, she does it and he lets her, and though his breath quickens and she feels his pulse racing when she kisses the hollow of his throat or slips her hand beneath his shirt to rest her palm against his skin, he does little more than return her kisses or slide his fingers along the length of her hair. That is exactly what Sansa wants. She has never had a choice in these things. For Peter to let her simply do as she wishes with him, without any expectation of anything else at all, is a relief. 

When Sansa finally pulls her mouth away from his, she's as flushed and breathless as if she's spent an evening dancing, but it's a different sort of flushed and breathless that she's never felt before. "I got a little carried away," she says, and then she blushes, but it isn't from embarrassment.

"That's good, I think." Peter touches her cheek, brushes his fingers against her hair, then draws his hand away. He's just as flushed as she is, and near as breathless. 

"Yes." The sash of her nightrobe has come loose and she straightens her robe, tightening the sash about her waist more firmly. 

"If you should wish to do this again," he says, "I would not be opposed to it."

Nor would Sansa.


	15. She Never Wanted to Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think that what it really means, in the end, is that it's all going to be all right, and that all of it is bigger than you or me or Sansa or anyone else, because Narnia will carry on, and so will the North."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [Cerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie) for hand-holding me over this chapter!

It's another two days' travel from Fangdor to the Narnian border, and Cruggan and Osag accompany them. They spend a final night together at the border, and in the morning, the twins bid them good-bye. 

"Thank you both so much for your help," Susan says. "It was so kind of you to give up your time to help us, after having been away from your family for so long already. You made this trip much quicker and safer than it would have been otherwise."

The twins insist it was no trouble, that they enjoyed the travel and getting to know the Narnians but especially getting to know the free folk, and when the final good-byes are said, both she and Edmund feel as though there's a chance for improved relations between Narnia and Ettinsmoor.

Relations between Narnia and the North, however, will be more complicated. As they travel through Narnia back to Cair Paravel, all Susan can think about is how they will explain the problem with time to Peter and Sansa. Peter will likely be easier to convince, she thinks, as he has the same knowledge as Susan and Edmund, although he's likely not thought on it for years just as they hadn't. But it may be more difficult for Sansa to make sense of it. Jon only has a sense of the problem because he had met these women in his past and saw with his own eyes how much time had passed despite knowing otherwise; Sansa will not have that reference, and Susan would not blame her if she thought it some sort of trick.

When they arrive at the free folk camp, Tormund and the others help get the women settled while Edmund, Susan, and Jon continue on to the castle, as Susan thinks it best that they speak with Peter and Sansa immediately. Ghost is feeling well enough now to follow Jon on his own, now, but not at his usual brisk pace, and he seems to tire easily. 

Lucy, just returned from the border a few days before, greets them in the bailey. "I'm so glad you're back," she says, hugging Susan and Edmund tightly. "You've found the missing free folk, I've heard. That's absolutely splendid. Edmund, you look well."

"I am," he says, and kisses Lucy's cheek. "The men from the castle? They've been returned to their own lands?"

"Yes," says Lucy. "I took the Telmarines to the western border, then met King Lune's men in Archenland and went with them to the Calormene border. It was in all ways uneventful. I think everyone was simply glad to be going home."

"I'm glad to hear it," says Edmund.

"Did you hear about Peter's plans?"

"Yes," says Susan, "but we'd best talk about that straight away. Could you find him, Lu? And Queen Sansa, so the six of us can all speak on it together." There will be other conversations of a more private nature later, she is quite certain, but the facts (what few they have) ought to be laid out together for their two families to see. "I need to change."

"Then let's meet in the library in an hour," Edmund suggests. 

Susan is bitterly tired from all the walking and would like nothing more than to have a cup of tea and a nice long nap before dealing with this problem, but that will have to wait. Washing off the dust of travel, letting her maid pin up her hair, and changing into a fresh dress of blue and white damask helps her feel a bit more like herself, however. She goes down to the library, steeling herself for what is likely to be an uncomfortable conversation. 

The library door is open, and she sees Peter and Sansa for a moment before they realize she is there--or, rather, she sees Peter, as Sansa's back is to the door--and the expression on his face is not one she has seen from him before. It's a look that is so tender and heartfelt Susan feels quite as though it is something terribly private that she should not have seen at all. She quickly steps away from the door, feeling as though she ought not to intrude. Given what Jon said was in Sansa's message, she had thought the agreement between Sansa and Peter to be more of a political alliance than anything, but seeing Peter's face when he looks at Sansa makes her wonder if Peter might have feelings more tender toward her than can be attributed to mere politics. She doesn't know if that will make this more difficult or less.

She takes a breath, then enters the library as if she's just arrived.

"Susan," says Peter, when he sees her. "Welcome back." He rises from where he was seated beside Sansa and kisses Susan's cheek. "I'm glad you're all right. Every time a message came from the north I'd come to expect another calamity. Falling bridges, storms, enchantresses, giants, bears…"

"I think we've managed all right," Susan says, taking a seat. "Thanks in no small part to Jon Snow and Ghost. Queen Sansa, it's good to see you again." 

"Welcome back, Your Grace," Sansa says.

"Oh, please call me Susan." Susan wonders how Sansa will take the news they have to share with her; both the issue of time, and the idea that Jon has come to that he might remain in Narnia. Sansa clearly wants her brother to come home, and for that Susan cannot blame her at all. Of _course_ she wants what family remains to her to come home. 

In truth it's what she wants for her own brother--she does not want Peter to leave for what might be years at a time, although if he chooses to, who is she to tell him no? 

Jon appears then. He greets Peter and Lucy, who has just arrived with Edmund, and embraces his sister before taking a seat beside her. "How is Ghost?" Susan asks, noting the wolf's absence at Jon's side. 

"Better than he was a week ago," he says, "but very tired, so I left him in my room. I hope that isn't a problem. Jewel is keeping him company."

"Of course not," Edmund says. "Let him rest. He's more than earned it, poor brave fellow."

Peter clears his throat. "So, the mission was a success, and I'm glad for it. Edmund, Lucy said there was somewhat you wanted to discuss with us? You and Susan made it sound rather urgent."

"I think I'd better explain, Your Grace," Jon interrupts. He glances at Sansa, then Peter, before continuing. "Sansa sent a message to me while we were in the north, telling me of the alliance she'd proposed between Narnia and the North--that the two of you would marry, in the hope of heirs for Narnia and for the North, and for military support for the North."

"Yes, that is the general plan," says Peter, and Susan thinks he sounds a bit defensive. "Do you have some objection to the marriage?"

"To an alliance with Narnia? No," Jon says, "I do not. Though in truth I have little place to raise an objection even if I had one."

"But you clearly don't approve," Sansa says. 

"There's a problem." Jon shifts in his seat with a sigh, then continues. "When we found the free folk in the Wild Lands of the North, I realized they were a group of women I met when I went ranging with Lord Commander Mormont beyond the Wall, about four years ago. But these women claim to have been living on this side for nearly twenty years. And to look at them, they've clearly aged twenty years."

"I don't see what that has to do with Narnia and the North," Sansa says, frowning.

"Some of them were babies when their mothers brought them here," Edmund says, "and now they are women grown--those are the youngest of the women." He goes on to explain that the older women in the group described the land when they arrived consistent with the way it would have looked during the reign of the White Witch, in the last years. Then he turns to Lucy. "Do you remember when you first came to Narnia, Lu? Before me or Peter and Susan?"

"Yes," Lucy says. "I remember… that very first time, I went into the wardrobe, and there was Narnia, on the other side. That's when I met Mr. Tumnus, and we went to his house and had tea and I ate so much I dozed off, and then…"

"What happened when you came back?" Susan asks. "Do you remember?"

Lucy looks as though she's recalling something long forgotten, a sort of dreamy, thoughtful expression on her face. "You and Peter accused me of telling tales," she says softly, "because it seemed to you that I had only been gone for a moment. Not for hours."

"Yes. To you, you'd been gone for hours, but for the rest of us, it was only a moment," says Susan.

"I know it sounds far-fetched, but the only logical explanation is that there is something… inconsistent, I suppose is the best word, between the way time works on one side of the Lamp-Post and the other," Edmund says. "What might seem an hour in Westeros might seem a week or a month here in Narnia."

"But that doesn't make any sense. Jon was gone for weeks before we came north to find him," Sansa says.

Jon shakes his head. "We were in Narnia for just a night before the centaurs found us, about a week to travel to Cair Paravel, a few days as prisoners here, another week to travel across Narnia again, and there you were. It could not have been weeks before Bran noticed my absence."

"Tyrion said Bran told him you were missing for _weeks_. That was before Tyrion sent a raven and came to Winterfell. There must have been four months or more between the time Bran noticed you were missing and the time we found you here in Narnia."

"Jon and Tormund and the free folk were only here for a little less than three weeks before you came here, Sansa," Susan says gently. She can see that Sansa is becoming upset and trying quite hard not to show it; perhaps she is beginning to realize what this might mean for her plans, and Susan's heart aches for her. She does not know more about Sansa's story than Jon has spoken of to her, but she thinks it must be terribly frustrating to make a plan that she thinks will strengthen her somewhat vulnerable position only to have it yanked out from under her for reasons that likely make little sense to her--and if there are feelings between Sansa and Peter, that will only make it worse. "I know you don't have any real reason to believe me, and that all of this must sound incredibly suspicious, but I promise it's true." 

"Then we must find out more," Peter says, sighing in frustration. "Try and make sense of it. There must be some reason in it, but I admit I cannot see it if there is."

Jon nods in agreement. "That was my thought," he says. "Someone must go past the Lamp-Post into Westeros, and back again, and see how long it takes. I've spoken to Tormund. He is of a mind to return to Westeros with the free folk as soon as possible. When he does, I'll go with him, wait a short time, then return. Then you'll have a better idea what sort of alliance is possible between Narnia and the North."

Peter gets to his feet. "If you will pardon us, I would like to speak to my brother and sisters about this. I expect the two of you would like to speak privately as well. Please wait here. I'll send a servant to attend you, and we'll return after we've spoken."

Sansa does not look pleased, but she doesn't object to this and neither does Jon. Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy leave the library and gather in Peter's solar, where Peter pours himself a cup of wine and drinks it rather faster than Susan has ever seen him drink before. "Why didn't you send some _word_ of this?" he says, putting his cup down on his desk with a little more force than strictly necessary. "Instead of dropping it in my lap, into _Sansa's_ lap, with no warning?"

"Why didn't _you_ send us word of your plans, brother?" Edmund counters. "We had to learn of it from Jon, who heard it from Sansa. It was only by chance that Jon put the free folk story together with his own and realized that something was amiss."

"I didn't think we could explain it in a message," Susan says. "The whole idea was so complicated, I thought it best we speak in person. Jon did advise Sansa not to commit to anything until he returned and they could speak."

Peter presses his palms against the desk, leaning against it as his shoulders slump a little, and he swears under his breath, softly enough that Susan cannot hear the words but loudly enough to know that the tone is quite foul indeed. "I thought this would solve our problems." He smacks his hands against the desk in frustration. "I need an heir. Sansa needs an heir. She needs our armies and in time, when the North is at full strength again, we might need hers."

"That all sounds very reasonable," says Susan. "On paper, it's the most sensible thing to make an alliance with the North. And I truly want it to work."

"But if our suspicions are correct, you might go to Winterfell for what you think is six months, and it might be six years here in Narnia," Edmund says. "Or even longer. It could be sixty years, for all we know. Or Sansa and the North could ask for our aid and the difference in time means we don't send help until it is far too late, and she thinks Narnia has abandoned her. And then what happens?"

"I don't have to be king," Peter says, not looking at them. "We have four rulers and Sansa only has herself."

"Oh, Peter." Lucy's voice quivers a bit. "Surely you don't mean that."

"Don't I?" Peter turns to look at them, his face stricken. "You don't know what she's… her position is quite precarious. She hasn't any family with her--Jon is an exile, her sister is sailing off around the world to Aslan-knows-where, her other brother is the king of another country, the rest of their family dead--and there are four of us. Do we really need four of us to rule a country as small as Narnia? The three of you can rule just as well as the four of us did. Perhaps even better."

"You mustn't speak of this again," Susan says. "Do not even let it cross your mind."

"But I love her." He has such anguish in his voice that Susan's heart hurts for him. "I have never met anyone like her."

Susan knows that feeling all too well. She saw Peter's face when he thought no one was looking; his feelings for Sansa were painfully clear. "You are the High King of Narnia," she reminds him, putting her thoughts of Jon aside. "We were chosen by Aslan, and you most of all. You can _not_ give that up, Peter."

"You were going to give up your throne to marry Rabadash," Peter reminds her, "and be Queen of Calormen one day, to strengthen the tie between Narnia and Calormen. How is this different?"

"Because I am not High Queen, and a day in Calormen is a day in Narnia, not a year. It is different in every possible way." Not the least of which is that Sansa is nothing at all like Rabadash. "And in the end I decided against it. You cannot give up your crown, Peter."

 _Men do stupid things for women_ , Sansa had said, and Susan would laugh at the irony of it now except that it is not at all humorous. 

"Let Jon Snow go to Westeros and come back," Edmund suggests. "I'll go with him, if you need another pair of eyes to see it."

"I'll go as well," says Lucy. "And then we will all figure out what to do _together_. But you must promise not to do anything rash."

"Lucy--"

" _Promise_ me, Peter," Lucy insists. "Or so help me I will call our banners and keep you here by force until you have your wits about you again. I _like_ Queen Sansa. I think she would be a lovely bride for you and I would love to call her sister and be the fun Aunt Lucy who spoils your children terribly. Perhaps there is a way to make it work. But you must be reasonable about it and not do anything that you will later regret."

Susan hopes there is a way to make it work, for Peter's sake and for Sansa's. But if there is a way, she cannot see it.

*****

When the library door closes behind the Narnian kings and queens, Sansa feels she ought to say _something_ , but words have escaped her. She is angry, but she doesn't know who she ought to be angry _with_. Her first instinct is to be angry at Jon, but she quickly realizes that isn't fair. He only spoke of the problem. He didn't create it.

It's Jon who speaks first, when the silence between them becomes too much. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'd thought an alliance with Narnia would be a good thing, and I was happy to see you'd thought of it. Surprised you'd considered marriage, but happy for you all the same. The problem of time didn't occur to me until later."

"I thought it would solve my problems," Sansa says. "I thought… the North needs allies. Strong allies. And when I saw that Lucy was able to gather a force to go after her brother, after they had just finished fighting giants in the north and the Calormenes to the south…"

"I thought the same, after I saw the battle. It would be easy to underestimate a land that is mostly Talking Animals, but they can do things an army of men cannot," Jon says. "Even the Mice had a hand in it."

"And I thought… I need an heir. Peter needs an heir. He has no interest in ruling in the North and I have no interest in ruling here, so I thought the lords would be more amenable to him than to…"

"Than they were to Daenerys," Jon says, when she doesn't finish the thought. "Aye. There's sense in that, too. The North stays independent. They'll like that."

"But if he doesn't know how much time will pass any time he visits me in Winterfell, he's essentially abandoning his responsibility to Narnia." And Sansa cannot ask that of him, no matter how badly she needs an heir and the North needs the military support Narnia can provide. "And the same is true for me. Who knows how much time has passed back in the North while I've been sitting here waiting for you to get back." She hopes that they don't think she's abandoned them.

"I'm sorry it took us so long," Jon says. 

"Are you? I have to wonder. Whenever a messenger came from the north, it was nearly always with some news of something that happened to you and the Narnian queen. _Jon Snow and Queen Susan fell off a bridge. Jon Snow and Ghost saved Queen Susan from a bear._ Were you really trying to find the free folk and come back quickly, or were you enjoying your time with the queen?"

As soon as she says it, she regrets it. If she could claw the words back out of the air and swallow them whole, she would; Jon looks so stung by her words that she feels terrible for even thinking them, much less saying them. She doesn't even know why she said such things to begin with. "Jon, I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you weren't purposefully delaying my return to Winterfell."

But he looks guilty, too, as if there's some truth to what she's said. "We weren't wasting time," Jon says quietly. "It was always about finding the free folk. But it's true that Susan and I have grown close."

"I'm sorry," Sansa says again. "I really wasn't thinking." It wasn't fair to accuse him of purposefully delaying her return to the North--Jon would never do that. She knows that.

Jon sighs. "There's nothing to forgive."

"Do you love her?"

He doesn't answer her straight away. Sansa watches him carefully, taking in the play of emotions across his face; it isn't the soft, sheepish smile he'd given her when she'd asked him if he bent the knee to Daenerys in order to save the North or because he loved her, but something more uncertain, perhaps more complicated, but no less genuine. "I care for her," he says finally.

It occurs to Sansa then that he might be just as disheartened by this "inconsistency in time," as Edmund had described it, as she is. "Oh, Jon. I'm sorry."

"We have to find out how things lie between Westeros and Narnia," Jon says. He's clearly unwilling to talk about whatever he feels for the Narnian queen. "Don't give up just yet, Sansa. We'll find a way to make this work."

*****

The Pevensies come back to the library after much discussion amongst the four of them, but there is little else to say when they rejoin Sansa and Jon. All that is decided is that Jon and Edmund will go with Tormund when he takes the free folk back beyond the Wall, to see what happens upon their return. 

Everything after that is up in the air. 

Susan cannot remember ever feeling so miserable. The greatest part of her misery is Peter's idea that he might give up his seat in Narnia to go and live with Sansa as her husband. He did not mention it when they spoke to Sansa and Jon again, but Susan is certain it is still on his mind. Just speaking of it between the four of them created a discord among them that they have never felt before, not since Edmund's time with the White Witch. Not even Lucy's efforts at peacemaking had been able to mend it.

It is late in the evening when the Starks and Pevensies leave the library, but Susan is too disheartened to feel very much like going to bed. How could she possibly sleep for wondering what will happen next? She goes for a walk, instead. She wanders about the grounds and the castle, feeling restless and unsettled, and eventually, her path takes her to the throne room.

Susan remembers their coronation as if it were yesterday. Even the smallest of details are fresh in her mind, such as the little velvet-topped stool Mr. Tumnus had placed in front of Lucy's throne because her legs were too short to reach the floor properly when seated on it, and the way Susan's dress had been just the slightest bit too long and she had tripped on it twice in the hall before Mrs. Beaver tided up the hem of it just at the doors to the throne room.

She sits on the steps of dais, resting her elbows on her knees. _Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia,_ Aslan had said, right here in this very room. Does _always_ mean something different than she had thought it meant? Susan tries to imagine the four thrones with one of them permanently empty, and she cannot picture it. She does not _want_ to picture it. They were always meant to rule together, the four of them. 

"I see you couldn't sleep, either." Peter's voice is quiet, but it echoes in the empty hall.

Susan looks up at the sound of his voice. "No. Not at all."

Peter sits beside her on the step. "I don't like the way we left things earlier."

"I don't either. It feels… oh, Peter, I hate it. It feels like everything is going to change, and not in the good sort of way." She hadn't felt this way when she and Edmund went to Tashbaan; she realizes now that perhaps it was because somehow she knew she would never actually marry Rabadash and stay in Calormen. A part of her must have known she would always be coming back to Narnia. 

"Change isn't always bad, Susan."

"I know that." _But…_ And what was it Jon had said about everything before the word _but_?

Peter sighs. "I saw something last night," he says. "I don't know if it was a dream, or a vision, or if Aslan had anything to do with it, but whatever it was, I saw it."

"What was it?"

"I don't remember all of it, at least not clearly, so you mustn't laugh if it sounds foolish. You know how dreams always seem more real when you're having them and not so much after you wake." Peter's voice slows, then, as he tries to recall everything he'd seen. "There was Cair Paravel, with our red and gold banners hanging from the walls, Aslan's banners, but halved with the wolf sigil, like the one on Sansa's banners, and a crown upon the lion's head. And there was another castle, too, that must be Winterfell--all grey stone and round towers, with snow on the ground and a huge white tree with red leaves, not like anything we have here--and those banners were there, too, red and gold, grey and white, with the wolf and the lion, but with a crown upon the head of the wolf. The banners were the clearest part of it, but there were other things too, little bits and pieces, like a dream of a dream--a white stag, a black bird falling from the sky, a ship with a wolf carved into the bow and another with a dragon, a red-haired man with a crown of silver, a dark-haired man with a crown of gold, and a woman with a dragon at her side."

"That's… quite a lot," Susan says. She thinks she has never had a dream quite so detailed, and if she has she certainly hasn't been able to remember it all.

"Those last things--the ships, the stag, the bird, and the men and the woman--were just flashes, as if someone held up a sketch for just a moment and pulled it away before I could see it all," Peter says. "But the banners… I remember those very clearly. Now all of this could just be wishful thinking on my part, but it doesn't feel that way. What if it's Aslan, trying to lay out something of the future? None of it felt like anything we ought to fear. I think that what it really means, in the end, is that it's all going to be all right, and that all of it is bigger than you or me or Sansa or anyone else, because Narnia will carry on, and so will the North. I think we're meant to have an alliance with the North."

"I suppose that's what it means." Clearly, the lion is Peter and the wolf is Sansa, and their houses are meant to join in this way. She does not know what the dragon means--it cannot mean anything in Westeros, as there are no more Targaryens there. Jon killed the last Targaryen. Perhaps it has something to do with the Lone Islands. After all, a long-ago King of Narnia slew a dragon that was terrorizing the people there, and afterward the Lone Islands became a part of Narnia. "Aslan could be trying to show you what the future is like."

"And if he is, it isn't anything to fear." Peter puts his arm around Susan's shoulders, and she leans against him. "We have to trust in Aslan."

"Have you told Sansa what you've seen?" Susan asks. 

"No. She hasn't seen Aslan herself, so I thought it might trouble her to think he was telling her future, or she might simply think it rather mad," Peter admits. "I thought you all might think it mad, too, which is why I said nothing about it earlier. But I thought telling _you_ might ease your worries a little."

It does ease her worries a little, at least where Peter is concerned. But there is nothing in what Peter has told her that gives her any indication that there is a future for her and Jon. _All of it is bigger than you or me or Sansa or anyone else,_ Peter had said. And Susan can see the sense in it; Narnia had existed for a thousand years before they came along, and surely it will go on existing long after they are gone.

But it doesn't change her feelings about Jon.

Peter's mind seems eased after their talk. He leaves her with a promise that he will not make any decisions until after Jon and Edmund go to Westeros and return, and Susan supposes that is all she can reasonably ask of him. _Her_ mind is not eased at all, however.

*****

When Jon hears the knock at his door, it's quiet, as if the person on the other side isn't sure if they want to disturb him or not. Nothing could disturb him more than his own thoughts, which will keep him awake until the hour of the wolf, he's sure. He is not surprised to see it is Susan; he doesn't ask her what's wrong or why she's at his door, only opens it and lets her in.

"Do you know when Tormund wants to leave?" she asks.

"Tomorrow," Jon says. "While we were gone, Peter and Mrs. Beaver organized provisions and supplies for them, so everything would be ready as soon as they wanted to leave… so there's no reason to delay."

"I see." She glances at Ghost, curled up asleep on the bearskin by the fireplace. "How is he?"

"Better. Just very tired. He isn't hurting as much as before, though; I think if he rides most of the way and walks a little each day, he'll be all right by the end of the week." The encounter with the bear had mingled Ghost's mind with his in a way that Jon had not been prepared for and really cannot explain. Not so much, now, but he still has a sense of how Ghost is feeling, and the fear is gone, the pain mostly faded as well. Now all he gets from Ghost is a sense of tiredness that is improving a little more each day.

"I'm glad." She looks as though she's weighing what to say next, and Jon waits without interrupting; his moments with her will be few going forward, and the spaces between her words are somehow more precious to him than the words themselves, especially when her brow furrows in thought. "Since you're leaving tomorrow, I want to say goodbye now," she says finally. "We're all going across Narnia with you, but I want to say goodbye now. Not later, when everyone is there."

"I'm coming straight back," he reminds her. "Edmund and I are coming back. We have a plan."

"It might not be that simple," she says. "What if you never come back?" 

"I will."

Susan steps close, slipping her arms around his neck and drawing him to her. "No matter how long you're gone," she whispers against his skin, "I'll wait for you." There's something in her voice that sounds achingly lonely, and it surprises him. How can she be lonely, surrounded by so many people that love her? Jon has felt that, felt it more often than he hasn't, but it hasn't occured to him that she might feel that way too.

Jon draws in a long, careful breath, sliding his arms about her waist. When he thinks back on this later, he will never be entirely sure who initiated it, whether it was her kissing his neck or him whispering her name against her ear that that started a chain of events that neither of them could stop, but in the end it doesn't matter. 

It might be the last time he's ever alone with her, and it's a thought it seems they share, given the fierceness of her kiss. Jon steps back toward the bed and she follows, neither of them wanting to miss a moment of kissing each other; she tugs his shirt out of his breeches and he yanks it over his head, and when she glances at the scars that cross his chest he quickly kisses her again before she can ask him about it. It's one of the parts of his life, his old life, that he desperately wants to forget. It's much easier to forget with her hands on his skin. Jon fumbles a bit with the laces of her gown, desire making him clumsy. 

"I've never," she says, helping him with the laces. 

"I won't hurt you." 

"I know." Susan steps out of her dress and pulls her shift over her head and her skin is pale and smooth, her breasts soft and full; when he touches her she presses against him and makes a sound that he very much wants to hear again. She's not shy about what she wants, either, now that she seems to have made up her mind about it. There's such trust and affection in her eyes and he's greedy about soaking it up; her naked skin is beautiful and he wants her badly, but it's the affection and tenderness he sees there that does him in and makes him lose himself in her. 

He pushes her onto the bed and kisses her everywhere--the warm space between her breasts, her wide pink nipples, the hollow of her navel and the soft skin of her inner thigh, which pinks when his beard rasps against it just like he had imagined it would. When he presses his mouth to her cunt she's slick with want and she squirms with surprise and delight against his mouth. "Please," she says, and it makes him ache because he hears everything he wants echoed in her voice. No other man has done this for her, he knows, and he takes a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing that, and in the sound she makes when she finishes, shivering against his mouth.

"Oh, _goodness_ ," she says, when Jon finally looks up from between her thighs. Her voice is so proper, almost prissy, and he wants to laugh but doesn't dare. Then she laughs, light and sweet, and he drops his head to her thigh, chuckling softly against her skin. 

"I didn't realize that would be so fun," Susan says, softly stroking his hair.

"Aye, it can be." He has not known a woman to not enjoy it, though he expects someone, somewhere must not care for it overmuch. If those women exist he is glad not to know them.

She reaches for him, her eyes bright and soft. "Do come here."

His mouth is still slick with the taste of her but she seems not to mind, kissing him eagerly, shifting her knees apart so that he's cradled between her thighs. He's not bedded a maiden before, and he's not sure if he ought to warn her or say something else about it, but she reaches between them and takes him in hand and he nearly spills at her touch like a green boy. "Careful," he says, a little desperate, and then he's in her and he feels little else but blind need. She's wet and warm around his cock, her hands on him gentle and sure, and it's all so much that he only barely manages to pull out of her in time, spilling against her thigh and belly.

Susan seems surprised at it. "I didn't want to risk you," he says, when he's got his breath again. He won't risk getting a bastard on her; he knows he isn't one, but it doesn't lessen the old shame of it and he never wants a child to feel that. Jon reaches for his discarded shirt to wipe her skin clean, then shifts onto his back, easing her into his arms.

"You didn't want to risk having a bastard child," she says quietly. "Because you are." There's no judgement in her voice, but Jon hates the word all the same.

"No." He feels a twinge of guilt at the lie, but only a twinge. If there's a future for him in Narnia, best for it to be without the taint of dragon blood; if there isn't a future for him here, then it didn't need to be said anyway. "I wouldn't do that to a child. Or you." If he got her with child and disappeared, he expects her brothers would hunt him down and part his head from his shoulders.

"No, of course not." She sighs, tracing her fingers lazily across his chest. It's a contented sigh, though, not one of disappointment. "If you don't come back… I'm glad we had this, at least."

"Aye. Me too." He kisses her brow softly. "But I'm coming back."

"You'd better." She gives him a gentle poke in the ribs, then shifts onto her elbow to look at him. "It was good," she says, and her cheeks are a brilliant pink. "It's late, but… can we… again?"

Jon doesn't answer. Instead, he tips her onto her back, kissing her deeply.


	16. The Lone Wolf Dies....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're all gone." Her voice is muffled against his shoulder. "You and Arya and Bran. Our pack is gone."
> 
> "Aye," Jon says gruffly. His throat is tight with emotion. "But you'll make a new one."

This is the fourth time Jon has ridden across Narnia. It ought to be a pleasant trip. Late spring in Narnia is green and beautiful, making for an easy ride, and he's taking the free folk back beyond the Wall, which has been his objective all along. There's little pleasure in this for him, though, and it makes him broody enough that Tormund seems to feel the need to fill the silence with chatter. And some of that chatter is good-natured ribbing of Jon.

"So," Tormund says one morning, as they ride west alongside the group of free folk. "You and this Narnian queen. Are you going to stay here with her when you come back, or are you going to freeze your balls off with us in the north for the rest of your life?"

"I don't know."

"What's not to know?" Tormund turns in his saddle and looks back at the Narnian contingent for a moment, some distance behind them. "She's a fine woman. Too delicate for me, but she ought to suit you. You'd give her some pretty sons, I think. Did you bed her yet?"

Jon scowls at his friend. "That's none of your business."

"Har! So you did find your way to her bed," Tormund chuckles. "I thought you might forget how to use that pecker of yours, you've kept it to yourself so long. So, you want her, she wants you. Let that be enough."

"It's not that simple."

"No? Because you're a crow again?" Tormund scoffs. "Never stopped you before."

"Not that." It would have mattered to him, years ago, but after everything that's happened, the vows of the Night's Watch seem hollow and meaningless in a way they hadn't the first time. 

"The time between the lands, then? If you stay here with her, what does that matter? I'd miss your pretty face if you never came back north again, Jon Snow, but don't let that stop you."

"I might never see my sisters again, then."

Tormund shrugs. "Were you ever planning to visit them again when you came north with us? They're women grown," he says. "The little one is too wild to ever sit in one place for long, and the ginger one… well, the free folk will always be her allies, this Narnian king has his heart in his eyes for her, and the dwarf's got a sweet spot for her too. I reckon she'll be fine without you breathing down her neck."

Jon opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, wordlessly. He's tried to protect Sansa, with varying degrees of success, ever since she showed up at Castle Black with Brienne and Podrick in tow. The idea that she doesn't need him to do that anymore should have been obvious to him for some time now, but he hasn't looked it in the face. If Sansa doesn't need him, and Arya doesn't need _anyone_ … is he truly needed in Westeros at all? The free folk and the Night's Watch have a peace now, and there is no danger to either group from beyond the Wall. Even the free folk who wandered away from the north are now returning. Jon's duty to them will soon be done.

Perhaps it's time for Jon to think about what _he_ wants, for once. 

He's never truly had a chance to do that, and he's not sure he knows how. There had been a brief time, when Stannis had offered to name him Jon Stark and make him Lord of Winterfell, that he had thought about accepting it and leaving the rest behind, but it had never felt like something to seriously consider, not like something he actually wanted. Even in his feelings for Daenerys, what he _wanted_ to do had been inseperably intertwined with what he knew he _needed_ to do. 

But with Susan, there's no thought of what he ought to be doing, or some other purpose other than being with her. She'd fallen asleep in his arms after he'd had her a second time that night she came to his room, and while she slept he thought of nothing at all except how sweet it felt to have her. There had been another feeling, too, one that Jon was so unfamiliar with that he had only had time to recognize it after the fact: contentment. Contentment, and a feeling of finally being able to enjoy the moment as he's in it and not constantly needing to think about the next war, the next battle, the next strategy.

It's with this in mind that he pulls Sansa aside after they've had their supper on the last evening of their journey. The late spring days are the longest they've known so far in Narnia, so it's not full dark yet, and they are able to walk a little ways away from their camp and still be able to see.

"Are you still of a mind to marry Peter?" he asks her, once they're far enough away from the camp that they won't be overheard. 

"If there's a way to make it work," she says. "We need this alliance. I need someone to pass the North to when I'm gone. Arya will never settle down and have children, and you…"

"I'm not a Stark." Those words don't hurt when he says them, like they used to. 

"But you're not a Targaryen, either. Not really."

"No. Just a Snow." 

"I think it might be easier for you to be 'just' Jon Snow here in Narnia," Sansa says carefully. His suprise must be obvious to her, as she adds, "Am I wrong?"

"No. You're not wrong." Jon had wondered how he would broach the subject with her, but it seems Sansa has been thinking on it too. He's not sure whether he ought to be relieved that she spoke on it first, or a little disturbed that he is so obvious in his intentions. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I want to stay. I'm just not sure if it's right." 

"Then you ought to have this." Sansa pulls a scroll from a pocket inside her cloak. The parchment is a little battered, as if she's been carrying it for some time. "I drew up a pardon for you before I left Winterfell and had my council witness it. I've left a copy there as well."

Jon cannot bring himself to actually read what is written on the scroll. Not right now. He will read it later, on his own. "Thank you, Sansa."

"I shouldn't have let them punish you in the first place," she says quietly. "But it would have started another war. Our men would have fought for you until the end, but they'd been fighting for so long, the end might have come sooner than we would have liked."

"I know."

"And now we have an ally in Narnia," she adds. "So if the Iron Islands or Dorne or anyone else wants to take issue with what I've done…"

"Bran and Tyrion will keep them in line, I think." And if Jon is here in Narnia, there is no real reason for Sansa to make it widely known that she's pardoned Jon, and that will lessen the consequences for her and for the North. "And if not, Narnia will stand with you."

"Yes."

"I know you wanted me to come back to Winterfell," Jon says. "But I can't. I think me being there would only cause problems for you."

"I know." Sansa's voice catches then, and for just a moment, she looks like the Sansa who rode into Castle Black in the snow, cold and afraid. 

"Come here," Jon says, and pulls her into his arms to hug her tightly. 

"You're all gone." Her voice is muffled against his shoulder. "You and Arya and Bran. Our pack is gone."

"Aye," Jon says gruffly. His throat is tight with emotion. "But you'll make a new one." If she goes through with this arrangement with the Narnian king, he'll give her children, and she'll have a new family. A new life. And House Stark will carry on, as it always has.

Sansa takes a deep, shuddery breath, and after a long moment, she lets go of him. He sees that her eyes are a little red. "Yes," she says. "I will." She takes another breath, this one steadier than the last, and the vulnerable look is gone. "You haven't told them who you really are, have you?"

"No." He feels a stab of guilt again at this, but he thinks it is the right way to proceed. "It means nothing here, and I think…" Jon hesitates, trying to choose his words carefully. "It might be best if Westeros thinks the Targaryen line has died out." There were good rulers among the Targaryens--even Daenerys might have been a good ruler, had things been different--but those that were not were truly terrible. The end of House Targaryen is perhaps for the best for Westeros.

"What if you have children?"

"Do you think I could ever have that in Westeros, even beyond the Wall?" He shakes his head. "Even if I found someone… it would be too great a risk. But here, they would just be children. It's Peter's line that will inherit Narnia, not Susan's. They wouldn't be heirs to anything. Not in Narnia or anywhere else." And Jon could simply be Jon. "They would stay in Narnia." He hasn't discussed the future with Susan. Not yet. It will be something to speak on when he has returned from seeing the free folk home, when the details with Sansa and Peter are settled. But this is something Susan cannot know. 

"You can't tell them, Sansa," he adds. "Not Peter, not Susan--none of them. I want it to end." If he and Susan have children, and they have children, and _they_ have children, eventually there will be so little Targaryen in them that it will be meaningless, and the house will be gone in truth. 

"I swore to keep your secret before," Sansa says, "and I meant to… but I thought telling Tyrion would protect you. I'm sorry."

Jon had been angry with her then. He was not sure he could ever forgive her for it, even if he understood her reason. Somewhere along the way he had forgiven her, as he had asked her to do something impossible. It was the best choice of only a few terrible choices. "I know," he says. "But this time, not a word. To anyone."

"I swear it."

In the end, it is decided that Jon, Brienne, Edmund, and Lucy will accompany Tormund and the free folk past the Lamp-Post. Sansa and Tyrion, along with the guards who accompanied them north, will remain in Narnia with Peter and Susan. The four going over will stay for only a few moments before returning, though it may seem far longer to those in Narnia. 

"Now, brother," Edmund says, "it does not matter how long we seem to you to be gone; you must not come after us. For us to have any idea how this works, we need eyes on both sides. If you all come across, we'll have no sense of anything and all this will be for naught."

"What if you never come back?" Peter asks. "You can't expect me to sit here and do nothing while I wonder what has happened to you."

"Then you definitely shouldn't come after us," says Lucy. "You are the High King, and you need to stay in Narnia. If it takes us so long to return that you think us gone for good, what benefit would Narnia gain from losing you as well? And if it isn't time that keeps us away, but some trouble, it is still useless for you to follow. No. You must promise to stay in Narnia."

"I suggest the same to you, Sansa," says Jon. He's reluctant to tell Sansa what to do, but he's worried all the same. "If we get into some trouble, then it isn't safe for you to come through anyway. Otherwise it's only time, and it means it's longer here than there. You might feel you're abandoning the North, but you're not."

"All right," Sansa agrees reluctantly. 

Goodbyes are said then. True goodbyes to Tormund and the free folk; _see-you-soon_ s to the others. Jon embraces Sansa and kisses her cheek, but at Susan's request his goodbye to her is brief. And then it is time to go.

Tormund and the free folk go first, with Jon and Ghost, Brienne, Lucy, and Edmund following behind them. As they move past the light of the Lamp-Post, Jon turns to look back over his shoulder. It's as though everything behind the light has disappeared, as if a thick mist or fog has crept through the trees to obscure their vision. He doesn't like it. "Ghost, stay with me," he says to the wolf, but the warning seems unnecessary. Ghost seems reluctant to go very far from Jon.

After they've ridden a few yards into what is clearly no longer Narnia, they stop and get down from their horses to have a look around. Jon thinks it different it is than it was in Narnia--the air a little less sweet, the sky a little less blue--but also how different it is than it was when he was here before. The ironwoods and sentinel pines are the same, tall and ancient, but the oaks are green with new growth of leaves, and most startling of all, the snow is mostly gone, save for a few drifts here and there where the ground is always in the shade of the trees.

"There was still snow on the ground when we came here before," Jon says. "A thick blanket of it."

Brienne shakes her head. "When we came north with Her Grace, it was like this," she says. "Most of the snow had gone, and it was cool, but not bitterly cold as it had been."

So some significant time clearly had passed between Jon's exit from Westeros and Sansa's journey north, long enough that the snow had melted and vegetation had begun to grow. Jon wonders if the defeat of the Night King and his army means that the seasons will be different now. Shorter, perhaps months instead of years. 

Tormund rides up alongside them and dismounts. "Are you going back now?"

"Yes," says Jon.

Tormund claps him on the shoulder, then yanks him close in a bone-crushing hug. "If I don't see you again, little crow," he says gruffly, "try not to get yourself killed. Again." He lets go of Jon. "Some of the free folk want to move on, but many want to settle right here," he says. "I think I'll stay here, at least for now. Keep anyone from wandering too far past that light."

"It's a good idea," Jon says.

"You'll always have a place with us, if you ever…" Tormund clears his throat, his voice more gruff than before. Ghost whines softly and Tormund ruffles the wolf's fur. "Now go on back, before your sister and the little queen think I've stolen you away."

*****

Sansa knew that it wouldn't be as simple as turning around and coming right back. She knew this, and yet when they don't immediately return, a knot of worry begins to coil in her belly. The sun moves across the sky, the shadows lengthen, and still there is no sign of Jon and the others. The Narnian guards begin to set up tents in the case they are there for several days.

"Try not to worry," Susan says at nightfall, when there is still no sign of them. Sansa isn't sure whether Susan is directing it to her or Peter or to herself. She says it again in the morning, and the next morning and the next, but after that Susan doesn't say it again. She's clearly too worried herself to try to assure Sansa that she shouldn't be.

It is near on a week of waiting before Sansa decides that she and Peter need to have a conversation about what this means. "Will you take a walk with me?" Sansa asks him one morning after they've broken their fast. Peter offers her his arm, as he usually does, but unlike what has become usual between them, Peter is very quiet.

"What are you thinking?" Sansa asks, when the silence becomes more than she can stand.

"That this makes things difficult," Peter admits. "I thought it might take some time, though I didn't imagine it would take _this_ long. But difficult and impossible are not the same thing." He stops, turning to her, taking her hands in his. "Perhaps we will need to make some adjustments to our plan."

"Such as?"

"If the time becomes a problem, then my traveling between Narnia and the North will not be as easy as we thought it would. It might be best if I came to live with you. Permanently."

"Do you mean give up your crown? To come and live at Winterfell with me?"

"Yes." Peter squeezes her hands. "The marriage would still give you an alliance with Narnia; my brother and sisters would honor it, I have no doubt. Narnia would still have three rulers without me, and I… if we're to have children together, I would not want to be missing from their lives for years at a time. I would want to see them grow up, to help raise them."

Sansa is so surprised by this suggestion she hardly knows what to say in response. There is such affection and tenderness in Peter's expression. She has never seen a man look at her like this before, and she isn't sure what she ought to do about it. This was meant to be a political arrangement; yet the way Peter is looking at her is anything but political. It is not something Sansa had anticipated. "What about…" She stammers a bit, flustered. "You said that the four of you had agreed it would be your line that inherits the throne of Narnia. What happens if you abdicate?"

"I suppose they would decide that," Peter says. "But I've seen the way your brother looks at Susan. She's been fretting herself sick ever since he left with Lucy and Edmund; and I _know_ what she looks like when she's worried for one of us. She's worried for them, but she's worried for Jon as well. I expect they would not be opposed to a marriage, should it be suggested to them. Edmund could inherit, as my brother, but Susan is older. There is no reason her children by Jon could not inherit, and it strengthens our alliance even more."

That is even more surprising than Peter's suggestion that he abdicate. Clearly, Peter has not been informed about whatever Jon and Susan might be planning, and Sansa wonders at why that might be. "I think he would like to stay in Narnia," Sansa says carefully. She does not think it her place to tell Peter what he will likely learn anyway when Jon returns. But she knows that the only thing Jon would want less than a crown on his own head would be a crown on the head of any future children he might have--for many reasons, including the one she absolutely cannot reveal. "But Jon is a bastard, and a man of the Night's Watch besides." _Sansa_ knows he is not, but that is what he has told the Narnians he is.

Peter makes a dismissive gesture. "Being a bastard did not matter when he was chosen King in the North, did it? It means nothing in Narnia. And as Queen in the North, I expect you could deal with the matter of his vows as far as Westeros is concerned quite easily with a stroke of your quill. Armies always need gold; if the Night's Watch would consider a payment of gold in return for your brother's release, Narnia could arrange it. I am certain they need it, after everything that's happened."

"I do not think Jon wants to rule anything," Sansa says. "He gave up his crown before." He had given it up because Daenerys demanded it, in truth, but she thinks there was a part of Jon that simply did not want to rule and only accepted it in the first place because it allowed him to prepare the north for the coming of the Night King.

"He wouldn't rule anything, if he married Susan," Peter says, "any more than I will rule in the North. Susan, Edmund, and Lucy would continue to rule Narnia, and you would rule in the North." He looks at her thoughtfully. "I thought you'd be pleased with this solution, but somehow I don't think you are."

"I'm just surprised, is all." It's not exactly a lie. She _is_ surprised, but that isn't all of it. "I never expected you to give up your crown for me."

"I didn't expect I would either."

"Did you tell your brother and sisters of this plan?" 

"I did."

Sansa is glad to hear it. Jon had given up his crown without a word to her, and, according to Brienne's account of the meeting with Cersei in the dragonpit, without consulting Ser Davos, his own Hand, or anyone else. "And what did they say?"

Peter's expression sobers a little. "They were not in favor of it. Of our marriage, yes. They like that idea very much. They like _you_ very much. Of me leaving Narnia… I've not yet convinced them."

"Then let's not be hasty." If this alliance with Narnia is to work, in whatever form, they need Susan, Edmund, and Lucy to support it. "Let's wait until Jon and the others have returned. Then we can solidify our plans."

In the meantime, she thinks a conversation with Susan is in order.

*****

Susan is about to retire for the evening when she hears Sansa's voice at the flap of her tent. "Susan? Might I speak with you?"

"Of course." Susan goes to the entrance of the tent, drawing back the flap for Sansa so that she might enter. Sansa has to duck her head a bit as she comes in, though the tent itself is quite high-roofed and spacious. 

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late," Sansa says. 

"It isn't a problem. In truth, I was putting off going to sleep," Susan admits. "I just toss and turn anyway… I've hardly slept a wink since they left. I'm sure it must be even worse for you--worrying about the North while you're gone, and what will happen with the treaty with Narnia." She gestures to a pair of camp chairs and takes one of them for herself. "Do have a seat. Unless you're tired of sitting. It feels like it's all we've really done for the last week, doesn't it? Sit about and wait."

"It does." Sansa takes the other chair, smoothing her skirts over her knees. "I wanted to speak to you about our brothers," she says, her voice quiet. 

"Yes. I suppose we should speak of them." Susan's voice is also quiet; the tent is thick canvas, but that in no way will keep them from being overheard. "Peter says he means to give up Narnia for you."

"I know. I didn't ask him to," Sansa says. "He thinks it's the only way to make the alliance between Narnia and the North work."

"I think it's a little more than that. I think he's quite in love with you."

Sansa goes rather still then, her eyes widening in surprise. "Do you think so?"

"I do." She wonders why this surprises Sansa--even if Peter has not had the nerve to tell her so, has she not seen the way Peter looks at her? Susan thinks Peter's feelings could not be more obvious if he embroidered them upon his sleeve. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"It was meant to be a political alliance," Sansa says, looking flustered. 

Susan has not had the chance to get to know Sansa very well, but she has never seen her look at all flustered, nor give anything away in her expression. Sansa has been something of an enigma, really, as much as Jon has been; but while she's had a chance to come to understand Jon much better, Sansa is still a mystery to her. Susan wonders if perhaps Peter feels more for Sansa than Sansa feels for Peter. For Peter's sake, she hopes not. "I know," she says. "But feelings can change, over time."

"They can. My own parents had never even met before their wedding," Sansa says, recovering her usual composure. "My mother was meant to marry my uncle Brandon, but he was killed before they could wed, so their parents arranged for her to marry my father instead, his younger brother. I think my parents grew to love each other very much."

What was it that Sansa had said about Jon, before they had gone north? _Men do stupid things for women._ Susan does not think Peter is being stupid, exactly, only perhaps not thinking especially clearly. Then again, it's difficult for _her_ to think clearly, where Jon is concerned. "Perhaps you'll come to love Peter as well, then," Susan says. "As I love Jon."

Sansa's expression softens, just a little. "I think Jon feels the same about you. He doesn't say so… but that isn't his way. He doesn't talk about these things."

"No. He's not a talker. He seems to prefer to… act on things, instead of talk about them." It is only after Susan says this that she realizes that there could be multiple interpretations of her words, not all of them good, and she blushes hotly. "I didn't mean--"

"--no, of course not." Thankfully, Sansa does not outright laugh at her, but she does smile a little, for a brief moment. "But I have to wonder why you haven't told Peter that there is something between you and Jon."

"I haven't had the opportunity. I know, I say that when we've been cooling our heels here for a week with nothing else to do," she says. "But I wanted Jon to be able to make up his mind about what he wanted without anyone pressuring him--I wanted it to be his decision, not mine or anyone else's--and I knew if Peter knew how I felt he'd feel as though he had to be the scary older brother… it isn't though we were keeping it a secret," she adds. "Edmund knows. But he's had a chance to get to know Jon in a way Peter hasn't yet."

"I see." The explanation seems to satisfy Sansa, though Susan thinks she is still difficult to read. "In any case, he does have an idea that you're interested in each other. He has it in his mind that your line ought to inherit the Narnian throne, instead of his. Yours and Jon's."

"Oh." _Red and gold banners, halved with the wolf sigil as on Sansa's banners, with a crown on the head of the lion,_ Peter had said. Is that what his vision had meant? "I… am not sure if Jon would like that," Susan says carefully. "I know he doesn't want to rule anything." But it would join their families more quite solidly, and ensure that their alliance would hold long after they are gone.

"That's what I told Peter," Sansa says, then sighs. "I wanted Jon to come home to Winterfell. But I was thinking about what I wanted. Not about what he might want. And I think he wants to stay here, with you."

"Then when he returns, we will all have to sit down and talk about it," Susan says. "But you shouldn't feel selfish for wanting Jon to come home with you. You must miss him dreadfully. I think if Peter leaves Narnia for good--even knowing he's happy with you, I would miss him terribly."

"Yes," Sansa says quietly. "I do miss him terribly. I miss all of them terribly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around. I hope you are still enjoying the story! I always appreciate your comments, so please let me know if you are enjoying what you're reading. 
> 
> I've been on summer vacation, but it's about time for fall semester to start... I have syllabi to prepare, conferences to plan for, and some articles to polish up for publication, but I will try my best to continue updating at least once a week. Please bear with me if my updates are a little slower going forward!


	17. ...but the Pack Survives.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I told you I would not give you answers," Aslan says. "Only help you find them."

The longer they wait at the edge of Narnia, the more difficult it is to simply _wait_ and do nothing. They've developed a certain rhythm to the day, out of necessity. Peter and Susan receive messages from Cair Paravel each day after breakfast, and they sit down together to conduct the day's business. By the end of the third week of waiting, there is plenty of business to which to attend. 

A messenger brings word that the Calormene ambassador requests permission to travel to Narnia to discuss the matter of the Calormenes who had been held hostage by the Crimson Queen; he will have to be put off, but only a well-crafted story can be given him, not the news that two of the four rulers of Narnia are currently out of the country and the other two have no knowledge of when they will return. 

"We will have to put him off," Peter says with a sigh, tossing the scroll onto the small table currently serving as his desk. 

"It's risky," Susan says. "We can put him off for a fortnight at most, and after that he will expect some answer."

"Do you think Calormen will make some show of aggression? The Tisroc is too old to lead an army himself and his heir can never travel more than ten miles from his home, or he will turn into an ass again. He will never raise his hand against us."

"Rabadash has seventeen brothers," Susan reminds him. "All equally cruel and proud. Like as not one will eventually murder him for his inaction and make himself his father's heir, if he has any ambitions of glory."

"He must be dealt with," Peter decides. "If we put off the ambassador, it looks suspicious. And gives the Tisroc's other sons an excuse to become ambitious."

"Then let us send word to him that he may come here. I'll return to Cair Paravel and meet with him while you wait for Edmund and Lucy and the others to return." She has no desire to speak with anyone from Calormen again, but _someone_ must, and soon.

Peter sighs, dragging his hand through his hair and making it quite unruly. "No, you ought to stay here," he says. "I'll go and deal with the ambassador. You shouldn't have to speak with him, not after what you had to endure there. Edmund is a better diplomat than either of us, I think, but as he's not available just now, it must be me."

Susan is grateful she will not have to deal with the Calormene ambassador, but she knows Peter will not like leaving Sansa here. "What of Sansa?"

"It is up to her," Peter says, "but I expect she will want to wait for her brother's return. And I expect you await his return as much as you await Edmund and Lucy's. Or am I wrong in that?"

"Did Sansa tell you?"

"No," Peter says. "I have eyes, sister." He leans back in his chair with another sigh. "Why haven't you said anything to me before now?"

"I thought to wait," Susan admits. "Until all had been settled between you and Sansa. And Jon isn't completely sure he wants to stay in Narnia anyway. Things have been complicated. I think he wants to be sure he's doing the right thing and not just doing it because it's what he wants."

"I see."

"Sansa says you've a mind that Jon and I ought to wed and _our_ children ought to inherit, not yours," Susan adds. It feels so foolish that she and Peter have only had this conversation through Sansa and not on their own, but that is how it has happened, as though they've lost the ability to speak to each other directly. Speaking of it with Edmund is somehow much easier, and she misses him dearly. 

"Do you object to the idea?"

"Of marrying Jon? No, of course not, though we've not spoken of it at all," she admits. She doesn't think she ought to be speaking of it to anyone else until they have-- _if_ they speak of it at all. She wonders if Jon has even considered it. "But I do not think Jon wants that sort of life. Having children who will inherit a throne." She knows for a certainty he doesn't want that for himself. 

"Perhaps he should have considered that possibility before he fell in love with a queen," Peter says. Though his words are a bit harsh, his tone is not. "But I think you are right. Sansa suggested as much to me. It's only… the longer they are gone, the more I am convinced that if this alliance is to work I will not be able to come and go to Narnia as I please. If Sansa and I are to have children, then I want to know them. Help raise them. I don't care for the idea of her doing all of this on her own. It does not seem right a man should get a child on a woman and then live apart from her."

"No, it doesn't." It isn't quite the same for Jon; but when she thinks of how he never speaks of his mother, only of his father, she wonders if he regrets not knowing her at all. 

"But I cannot bring myself to go and live with her as her husband without knowing that Narnia is secure," Peter goes on. "Your marriage to Jon would do that for Narnia; my marriage to Sansa would do that for the North, and then our two lands are bound, now and always, no matter what obstacle time makes for us."

"But…" There is really only one objection she can raise now, in the face of this logic (besides of course the selfish one of missing Peter dreadfully if he leaves). "Do you truly think Aslan will be all right with this? We are all kings and queens of Narnia, but he named you High King, specifically. Do you have the right to give it up?"

It's the first time she's seen Peter look even a little doubtful about this. "I've thought on it nearly every moment for weeks," he says. "And prayed on it, and wished for Aslan to give me some word about what he wants me to do. But I've had nothing from him save that dream I told you of. And that felt so real, Su. It wasn't an ordinary dream. Perhaps that is all I will get from him; you know he doesn't like us to sit about and wait to be told what to do."

"No. He doesn't." Susan wonders if he wants it to be Aslan's will because it's what _he_ , Peter, wants. On the other hand, it is unfair of her to say so. She has no reason to think that what _she_ wants is any more Aslan's will than what _Peter_ wants. Just because it's what she wants--for Peter to remain in Narnia--doesn't make it the right thing. 

It's terribly complicated. She's afraid of a misstep that could endanger Narnia or the North or both.

"I'm sorry if it seems as if I'm trying to force the issue for you," Peter says presently. "You shouldn't marry him if it isn't what you want."

"I don't want to say what I want," Susan says. "I _know_ what I want. I don't want Jon to think he's obligated to do what I want." That's quite a few _I wants_ in one breath. "What I don't want is for him to think he must marry me to make this alliance work. He's had so few choices in his life, real choices. If he stays in Narnia, I want it to be because it's what he wants. Not because he feels it is his duty."

"You seem awfully concerned with what Jon wants," Peter observes.

"No more so than you are with what Sansa wants," Susan says. "And I don't think it's right for you to make plans about what Jon and I ought to do when he isn't even here to have a say in it. Do promise me you won't make any more plans until they're back and we truly know what it is we're dealing with."

"All right. I will leave it be while I'm away dealing with the ambassador. When Edmund and Lucy and Jon return, if I'm not yet back, bring everyone back to Cair Paravel and we'll sit down together and decide what must be done." 

*****

When the Narnian king and queen approach Tyrion and Sansa late in the morning, Tyrion is prepared to take his leave and find something else to occupy him. He's tried to be privy to as little of the goings-on between Peter and Sansa as possible; partly for political reasons, but partly because the closer Peter and Sansa become, the more uncomfortable Tyrion feels. He can't put a reason to this discomfort, so he tries to absent himself as much as he can. He's about to take his leave when Peter says, "Please, Lord Tyrion, there's no need for you to leave. In fact, you'd best hear this as well."

"What is it?" Sansa asks. 

"There's been a message from the Calormene ambassador," Peter says. "The Tisroc--which is what they call their king there--wishes to know more about the Crimson Queen and how the Calormene men came to be captured by her."

"Wouldn't he have gotten that information from the men who your sister escorted back there?" Tyrion asks.

"Yes, of course," Peter says. "Which is why I expect that this has little to do with the incident itself. It is more likely a pretense to test us in some way, which is why it is of the utmost importance that Calormen not learn a whiff of Edmund and Lucy being away with us having no idea when they will return. The Tisroc is too old to make any threat against us himself, and his heir will be punished quite severely by Aslan if he ever leaves Calormen again. But the Tisroc has seventeen other sons who have no such restrictions, and I'd rather not let them get a sniff of any weakness, lest they get any ideas."

"You'll want to go and speak to the ambassador yourself, then," Sansa says. 

"Yes," says Peter. "I'll not subject Susan to dealing with the Calormenes. And I'll need to do it now; any delay will seem suspicious. I've had a messenger send word to the ambassador that he may come to Cair Paravel, so I must leave within the hour to be there well before he arrives."

"I'm going to stay here and wait for the others to return," Susan says. 

"I'll stay as well," Tyrion decides.

"Then I will remain behind as well," Sansa says. That surprises Tyrion; he had thought perhaps Sansa might want to return to Cair Paravel with her husband-to-be. "And wait for Jon and the others."

"Of course," Peter says. Tyrion thinks he makes a good effort to hide his disappointment. "I'll make much better time back with just me and a guard or two. You'll have plenty of protection here at the camp, and surely the others will return within the week."

 _But what if they don't?_ Tyrion thinks. He had thought it would be a few days, a week at most, before they returned, but they haven't, and he's not sure what that means for Sansa's plans. He hopes it doesn't change anything. Sansa isn't wrong that the North needs allies. But an alliance with Narnia might be about as much use as an alliance with Yi Ti, for the time it takes to go from one to the other.

Peter is so efficient in his departure then that Tyrion wonders if Calormen is more of a threat than the Narnians have let on. They _were_ just at war with them. Tyrion remembers something about Queen Susan being betrothed to the Calormene heir at some point. "Do you think the ambassador will be satisfied with your brother's explanation, Your Grace?" he asks. 

"I hope so," Susan says. "Our relationship with Calormen is complicated. We are not allies, but the largest part of our trade is done with them, and theirs with us. But we were just at war with them because I turned down the suit of their crown prince, so our relations are less than cordial just now."

"I'm sure you had a good reason," Tyrion says. 

"He was a terrible, nasty sort of person," Susan says. She seems somewhat embarrassed to admit it. 

"Peter said Aslan would punish the prince of Calormen if he leaves his country," Sansa says. "What did he mean by that?"

"After the battle at Archenland, Rabadash wouldn't surrender even when he was beaten," Susan explains. "He insulted King Lune and Edmund and Lucy and then when Aslan came round he insulted him as well, so Aslan turned him into a donkey and sent him home. Aslan said that he would turn into a man again when he was home, but if he ever went ten miles from there, he would turn into a donkey again and this time for good. There is nothing that man hates more than looking foolish," Susan adds. "It would be the most humiliating punishment for him."

"I see." Having seen Aslan once himself, Tyrion is not surprised that he can do such things. Being in Aslan's presence was such an experience that Tyrion could not imagine a person having the balls or stupidity that would be necessary to attempt to insult him. 

But Sansa seems unconvinced. "Turned him into a donkey?" she says. "That hardly seems punishment enough. Are you sure it's enough to keep him at bay?"

"Rabadash is too much of a coward to defy Aslan," Susan says. 

Tyrion thinks Aslan must be something like a god. Tyrion has never believed much in the gods, himself; he's not one for praying to trees, and the Seven always seemed like an excuse for the powerful to exploit the common folk and keep them in line. The Lord of Light might actually exist, if Jon Snow and Beric Dondarrion are any indication--but then again, that might simply be very strong magic, and his disciples simply very skilled magicians. 

But Aslan… well, there was something far more real about that Lion, something he'd sensed from him that he'd not got so much of a hint of from any tree or image in a sept or from some red priestess.

Tyrion is far too old and too cynical to start praying to anyone or anything at this point in his life. But he's not so stupid that he can't recognize some greater power when he sees it. And he wonders if this difference in time is some creation of Aslan's, meant to protect this tiny country and everything in it.

And if so, that may be a problem.

*****

Sleep eludes Sansa that night. Jon has been gone so long now that she fears something awful has happened to him and Brienne and the Narnians, and having no purpose but to sit and wait makes her anxious. She worries for Jon, and she worries for the North. What is happening in her absence? Sansa tries to hold to the idea that the delay means no time is passing at all beyond the Lamp Post, but she can't even be sure of that. What if the North is falling apart in her absence, while she's sitting here doing nothing?

She tosses and turns in her camp bed in her tent, but nothing she does sets either her mind or her body at ease. Finally she decides that there is little point in trying to sleep when she can't stop thinking, so she gets up and pulls on her dress and a pair of boots. Perhaps some fresh air will clear her head. 

Before she can pull back the flap of her tent, though, she hears a rustling outside it, and a hulking shape silhouetted against the canvas, as if the shape of some great beast, backlit by the watchmen's fires. The dagger Jon gave her before he went north is tucked into the top of her boot; slowly, she pulls up her skirt and slips the dagger from its hiding place. The weight of it is comforting in her hand even if she still really doesn't feel like she knows how to use it properly. The shadow remains outside her tent, yet she hears nothing from the watchmen. How can they not see such a massive beast lurking so closely by? Why have they not attacked it?

The shadow against the wall of her tent gets bigger and bigger, as if the beast is coming closer. Sansa feels a terror she has only felt once, when the dead Starks rose from their crypts, but at least then she had Tyrion and knew she would not die alone. 

Now there is no such assurance. 

The shadow grows even larger and the flap of her tent moves, as if something means to push it aside and enter. Sansa's fingers tighten around the hilt of the dagger and she has just made up her mind to charge the shadow if it enters when it abruptly moves away. Sansa waits until the shadow is gone entirely, then puts her head out the tent flap.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" The guard is one of her own, looking right at her, with two centaurs nearby. Had none of them seen the shadow?

"I thought I heard a noise."

"Might just be us," says one of the centaurs. "We were talking. My apologies, Your Majesty. We didn't mean to disturb your rest."

"It's all right." Sansa slips back into the tent, her heart racing. There _had_ been something outside her tent, and the centaurs had _not_ seen it, though she does not think it due to any carelessness or lack of attention on their part. They had clearly seen _her_ the instant she put her head past the flap. 

Whatever had been outside her tent had not wanted to be seen. But Sansa is certain that it had wanted to be seen by _her_.

She stands in the tent for a moment, trying to make up her mind what she ought to do. Sansa has learned many times over the years, at great cost to herself, that sitting back and waiting for others to solve her problems only leads to an even greater sort of problem for her. It is not as though she can actually go back to _sleep_ after seeing such a thing. As she cannot sleep, and as she cannot sit and wait for someone to deal with the shadow, the only logical choice left to her is that she must go and see what sort of creature did not want to be seen by anyone but her.

This time when she peeks outside the tent, the guards do not say anything to her. It is as if they do not see her at all even though two of them are facing in her general direction. She pushes the tent flap fully aside and they still do not see her, nor do they say anything when she walks away from the tent, away from the camp in the direction it seems the shadow went before. 

The moon is full and bright, so she has no trouble seeing the way. After a few moments she's far enough away from camp that the low voices of the centaurs and the crackle of the fire have faded away; it seems the whole wood is quite silent. Sansa has spent so much time out-of-doors lately that she's aware of all the usual sounds, the croak of frogs and the chirp of insects and the occasional hoot of an owl or two, but just now there are none of those sounds. The whole wood is absolutely silent, save for the trickle of a stream. As she moves further into the wood, the sound of the stream grows louder, and as it grows louder Sansa realizes that she is thirsty. In fact, she can't remember ever wanting a drink of water this badly.

When she finds the stream, she feels two things at once: relief that she can now have a drink of water, followed closely by a very deep sort of fright, for at the edge of the stream sits a large golden lion who seems to have a glow about him that cannot entirely be attributed to the moonlight. 

_He could devour me in one bite,_ Sansa thinks, and that is another type of fright all together.

"Are you thirsty?" asks the Lion. His voice reminds her of nothing so much as her father's voice, when he had his lord's face on him. In that moment she misses her father more than she ever thought possible.

"Yes," Sansa says.

"Then come to the stream and drink."

Once Ramsay had locked her in her room for the better part of a week with no food or water, forbidding anyone to attend her in response to some perceived slight for which he felt she needed to be punished. She had thought that she might die of thirst then, but that thirst is nothing compared to what she feels now. The longer she stands there looking at the stream, listening to the merry trickle of water over stones, the thirstier she gets. But the Lion is watching her with eyes that are wise and terrible, and she doesn't trust that he won't gobble her up the moment she stoops at the water's edge to drink. "You're too close to the stream," she says.

"I am exactly where I need to be," he replies. 

Sansa realizes that asking him to move would be as ridiculous as asking the weirwood in the godswood of Winterfell to uproot itself and walk away. The trickle of the stream has almost become a torment to her thirst. "Do you promise not to attack me while I drink?"

The tip of the Lion's tail flicks once, twice. "I make no such promise."

It seems to Sansa that her choices are to either die of thirst or die by lion--it does not occur to her to simply turn around and walk back to camp, or to call for help, or to find another stream--and as she thinks dying of thirst would be a slower and more miserable death than being eaten by a lion, she kneels at the edge of the stream. 

First she tries keeping her dagger in one hand while scooping water from the stream with the other. The stream is colder than the river she forded with Theon when they escaped Winterfell, so cold that she does not know how the stream is not frozen solid, and it makes the bones in her hand ache. The water is the sweetest thing she has ever tasted, and the small sips she can gather in one hand are not enough. In truth, the water only makes her _more_ thirsty.

Forgetting the Lion for a moment, she drops her dagger to cup both hands in the stream and drink, and only then is the water truly satisfying.

Finally her thirst is slaked. Sansa picks up her dagger and stands, only then realizing that she had been so greedy with the water that she's splashed quite a bit of it down the front of her dress. The Lion does not seem to notice. Instead, he nods to the dagger in her hand. "There is no need for that."

Sansa looks down at the dagger. Even if she did know how to use it properly, she feels it would be no use against someone like this, so she tucks it into the top of her boot again and straightens her skirts. "Who are you?"

"I am Aslan, child."

 _Oh,_ she thinks, and then, _I am a woman grown, not a child._ But Aslan seems so old and so wise that perhaps everyone who is not him seems like a child to him. "Everyone talks about you, but no one said you were a lion." Even Tyrion, one of the most detail-oriented people she knows, neglected to share that bit of information.

"Would you have believed it if they did?"

"No." And that is the truth, she thinks. "What do you want?" she asks, and then quickly adds, "Your Grace," because there is something about him that seems to demand a royal style.

"To speak with you," he says. "You have questions and fears."

"Will you give me answers?"

"I _give_ no one answers," says Aslan. "But I will help you find them."

Sansa has so many questions she doesn't know which one to ask first. "Is Jon all right?" she asks, and if her tone is impertinent it is only due to worry. 

Aslan does not seem to mind. "That is one answer I will give you," he says. He turns his face to the stream and gives a soft huff of breath across the water, which stills for a moment. Sansa peers into the stream and it is as if she is looking into a painting, but it is a painting that moves--a painting of Jon, Ghost, Brienne, Edmund, and Lucy, with Tormund and the free folk. Their mouths are moving, but she cannot hear their words. Tormund claps Jon on the back and hugs him, and then the water begins to ripple and the image fades away.

"That's what's happening past the Lamp-Post?"

"Yes."

"Why isn't he back, then?"

"Because I have willed it to be so."

Sansa does not think Aslan would prevent a King or Queen of Narnia from returning to Narnia; he does not seem the sort to do something so cruel. Therefore she has to think that Edmund and Lucy will be returning, and it stands to reason that Jon and Brienne will return as well. "Why did you will it so?"

"What do you think would happen if men and women from your world could come and go to Narnia as they please?" Aslan asks. 

Sansa means to say that she thinks it would be good for both Narnia and the North. There would be trade; the North would have a valuable ally in Narnia, and in time, when the North has rebuilt its strength, Narnia would have a valuable ally as well. She imagines what it would be like for the North to be able to call upon the strength of the Narnians, of the Griffins and Fauns and Centaurs and all the Talking Beasts great and small, the likes of which no one in Westeros has ever seen before.

No one would dare trouble the North again.

She is about to say all these things when she thinks of how the smallfolk fled in terror from the sight of Daenerys's dragons, how the and the Northern armies had kept a wide distance from the Unsullied and Dothraki. How would they react to creatures who appear to be half human and half horse? Half human and half goat? Animals that speak and think with the intellect of humans? _Narnia is a small country surrounded by larger countries,_ Peter had told her once, _and the larger ones look at us with greedy eyes._ It is not just Narnia itself they are greedy for, Sansa realizes. Not just the land and the abundance of resources it contains, but the Narnians themselves. Other countries might see the larger and stronger creatures as valuable slaves, not allies, and the smaller ones as curiosities to exploit for entertainment. 

The North would be just another large country looking at Narnia with greedy eyes. Not in Sansa's generation, of course, especially if Peter comes to live with her as he intends to and raise their children together. But after she and Peter are gone, and their children's children's have seen nothing of Narnia, have not lived here and seen Narnia for what it is… 

What then?

"Do you see?" Aslan says gently, when she does not respond.

"Yes," Sansa says. "You have to keep Narnia separate from everything else. To protect it."

"Is that not why you kept the North separate?" Aslan asks. "To protect it?"

It is not quite the same, Sansa thinks, and yet in some ways it is. That, she can understand. But the rest of it she cannot. "Then why did you let us come here?" she asks, a little bitterness creeping into her voice. Why has she spent so much time here, getting to know the Narnians, getting to know _Peter_ and even come to care for him, to make plans for an alliance and a family and a future? Has it all been for nothing? "Jon could have found the free folk without… all of this." Aslan let the free folk come here to escape the Night King; that much makes sense, and it even makes sense for Jon to be the one to find them and return them to Westeros. "Why did you bring me here? Why did you bring Tyrion here?"

"I told you I would not give you answers," Aslan says. "Only help you find them."

"It isn't fair." Sansa knows she sounds petulant, but she cannot help it. She has tried so hard to make things work, to do what she thought was best for her people and their future, and now she feels it all slipping through her fingers. It is so frustrating that she would cry with anger except that it feels wrong to do something like that in front of Aslan. "Are you telling me there can't be an alliance between Narnia and the North? That I cannot marry Peter? Or that Jon cannot be with Susan?"

"I said no such thing," Aslan says, not unkindly. "I do not tell you what you must do. Your choices are your own, and yet as a queen, they are not truly your own either. That is the burden of ruling."

"I don't know what to do now," Sansa says. 

"There is no need for haste," Aslan says. "This gift I will give you; the North is as you left it, and will remain so until you return."

It does not feel much like a gift to Sansa, but she will accept it. 

At least it gives her time to think. 

*****

Jon had prepared himself that there would be some oddity, some strangeness about returning to Narnia, but he hadn't enough imagination to picture what that might look like. He isn't prepared for the sudden warmth, the brightness of the morning sun, or the cluster of brilliantly colored tents that have popped up to form a well-organized camp where they'd just been standing some moments before.

"By Jove," says Edmund, staring in amazement. "So it's true." 

Jon doesn't know who or what Jove is, but he shares the sentiment. There's a flurry of activity then, as their appearance from the forest is spotted--guards and servants running to and fro, some coming to greet them, others scurrying to spread the news. It only takes a few moments for the word to spread. Jon is still absorbing the differences in what he saw moments ago and what he sees now; the warmth of what is clearly early summer, a camp that looks as if it's been in use for some weeks and just past it, a field with a riot of wildflowers in yellow and pink where he'd last seen only tender new grass.

They had only been gone for minutes. Jon is absolutely certain of it.

The flap of one of the tents is pushed back and Susan emerges from it; if Jon had had any doubts about what has happened here, the look of shock and relief on her face would have rid him of them. She runs across the grass to meet them, catching Edmund and Lucy up in a hug as they swing down from their horses. "You're back," she says, kissing each of them in turn, only just catching herself before she can do the same to Jon.

"You're back," she says again, more softly this time, beaming at him.

"We are," Jon says. He has never seen anyone so happy to see him before. Jon knows that much of her happiness is due to the return of her brother and sister; it isn't just him, but when she looks at him he feels as if the whole warmth of the sun has been turned on him.

It's then that Jon knows that he wants to stay in Narnia for good. And with that knowledge comes a feeling as though an enormous weight has been lifted from his shoulders, a weight he's carried for so long he hadn't realized just how heavy it had become.

"We were only gone a moment," says Edmund. "Just long enough to say goodbye to Tormund and have a quick look about."

"It's been three weeks," Susan says. "Oh, there's so much to tell you. Peter's gone back to Cair Paravel, there's been a message from the Calormene ambassador. He only just left yesterday--well, yesterday for us. Not for you."

"What did the ambassador want?" Lucy asks.

"To discuss the incident with the Crimson Queen," Susan says. "Peter didn't want to give him any sense that the two of you were away and we had no idea when you'd be back, so he didn't put him off like he might have done. But now he can meet with all of us. I'm so glad you're back."

"Where is Sansa?" Jon doesn't see her anywhere, though he does see Tyrion walking toward them at last. "Did she go back with your brother?"

"No. She stayed here with us. She must not yet be awake. I know she'll be so glad to see you, too. She's been worried for you." Susan glances from Jon to Edmund and Lucy. "Are you absolutely certain that you just stayed a few moments? I know it's a foolish question, but I have to ask."

"Quite certain," Edmund says. 

"Then we need to talk about what it means," Susan says. "But first we need to help Peter deal with the Calormene ambassador. I'll inform the men that they should begin breaking up the camp and making ready to leave."

"I want to speak with you alone for a moment before we go," Jon says, catching Susan's hand. He wants to tell her what he's decided, so that at least can be settled. "But first I need to speak with Sansa. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," she says, squeezing his hand and giving him a smile that makes him feel warm all the way down to his toes. "Come and find me when you've seen her."

It's easy to find Sansa's tent, as one of her own guards in boiled leather is posted nearby. "Welcome back, m'lord," says the guard. 

"I wanted to let Her Grace know I'm back," he says, and the guard nods. Jon nudges open the flap of the tent, hoping Sansa is both awake and dressed. "Sansa?"

There's a pause, and then, "Jon? Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Oh--give me a minute." He hears her moving about inside, and then, "Come in."

Sansa is mostly dressed, save pulling on her boots, but when she sees Jon she crosses to him and embraces him. "I'm glad you're back," she says softly, and when she doesn't immediately let go of him Jon wonders at it.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"I don't know." She sighs, letting go of him, and when she steps back Jon can see that she looks tired, as if she slept little the night before and that poorly. 

"Oh," says Jon. It's a strange answer, and he doesn't know what to make of it. "Do you want to talk about it?" It's not something he's good at, talking to people about their problems, but for Sansa he will make the effort to be good at it if there's somewhat troubling her.

"Not yet," Sansa says. "I need to think about it for a little while. I'm still--I need to think about it."

"Did Peter do something?"

"No. He's been wonderful."

"That's a relief." He would mislike having to set the Narnian king straight regarding his treatment of Sansa. "If you're sure…"

"I am." Sansa manages a smile then, though it is a tired one. "I suppose now that you've returned the Narnians will want to join Peter at Cair Paravel to deal with this ambassador."

"Yes. Susan's given the order to make ready to leave."

"All right. Tell them to give me a few moments and I'll be ready." Sansa touches his arm. "And stop looking at me like that. I'm all right. Just tired."

But Jon can't shake the feeling that she is, in truth, very much _not_ all right.


	18. Chaos is a Ladder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon knows very little about the Calormenes but he thinks it likely that is a ruse. "If it comes to war with Calormen, I'll stand with you." He is only one man and not sure how much he can actually do that their own armies can't accomplish, but he thinks it important that she and her family knows he's on their side, even if he is sick to death of fighting.

Susan and Lucy are supervising the preparations for departure when Jon finds her later. Susan's heart does a little flip when she sees him walking across the camp. Jon has become so important to her in such a short time, she'd missed him fiercely while he was gone, and she is ever so glad that he is back. 

But there are things he must know, and not much time to tell them.

"Your Grace," he says to Lucy. "Do you mind if I speak with Susan alone for a moment before we leave?"

"Of course not," says Lucy, smiling. "I can finish up here." 

Susan and Jon walk just a little ways away from camp, still in view so that they can be found easily if needed. Susan is trying to work out how to tell him about what she's learned while he was away when he says, without preamble, "I've decided to stay in Narnia. With you. Is that all right?"

As if it would _not_ be all right! Susan thinks she must look quite the fool, as she feels her smile is like to split her face in two. "Of course it's all right." She had hoped he would, and _wished_ he would, and felt so selfish for wishing it, but now she cannot feel anything but gladness that he has decided to stay. 

"Good." Jon smiles then, and it softens his face in a way she hasn't quite seen yet, a way that melts her heart. She knows he has been debating it with himself for a while, not sure if he is doing the right thing, and to have made a decision at last--and feel confident for having made it--seems to have taken a weight off him. 

But now she must say something he may not want to hear. If only she could avoid it… but he will learn of it when they reach Cair Paravel, if Sansa does not tell him sooner. "I must speak to you about Peter and Sansa," she says, taking his hand. "Not because I mean to gossip, but because of what it may mean for us. Peter thinks the strangeness in time means he will not be able to go from Winterfell to Narnia as he pleases. He's declared he's in love with Sansa, that he does not want to get children on her without being about to help raise them, and he means to give up his crown in Narnia and live at Winterfell with her as her husband."

"If he wants to give it up, that is his right," Jon says after a moment, a small frown of concern creasing his face. "And as long as he didn't try to rule the north, he could be a help to Sansa. She's doing everything on her own. A husband might mean less of a burden."

"Well… yes, that's true," Susan allows. She's not entirely sure it _is_ Peter's right to abdicate, though; but she leaves that aside for the time being. "But Peter means to name me his heir, which means… well, if you and I were to have children, it would mean they would inherit. And I… thought you might not find that agreeable."

Jon goes quite pale then, and Susan wonders if she has underestimated how little he would care for the idea. "No," he says quietly, "I don't. I know that being with a queen means a certain amount of formalities that go along with wearing a crown, but… I don't want to rule anything and if we have children, I don't want them to rule anything. Why does he want it to be you, and not Edmund? Or Lucy?"

"Because of the alliance he and Sansa are trying to create between Narnia and the North," Susan explains. "He thinks that if his and Sansa's children rule the North, and our children rule Narnia, it makes the tie between our lands stronger."

"Does Sansa know about this plan?"

"Yes, but she told Peter she didn't think you would be keen on it. And _I've_ told him that I thought you wouldn't want any part of it and that he ought not make plans that involve us without you. And that pacified him for the time being. But he'll want to talk about it when we're back at Cair Paravel, and I wanted you to know now so you wouldn't be blindsided with it when we arrived." Susan squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry this has become so complicated. I wanted it to be simple. We can handle this, Jon. I promise."

"Aye, we can." He squeezes her hand in return. "I'll speak to Sansa of it on the way."

Jon doesn't seem too angry about it, even if he is clearly opposed to the idea of any children they might have inheriting anything. "It seems we're agreed that we don't want any children we might have to rule Narnia," she says, "but you aren't opposed to the idea of children at all, are you?"

He only thinks on that for a moment before answering. "No, I'm not. It would be… something normal." The frown of concern that's marred his brow ever since she mentioned Peter's idea fades then, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. "A wife, and a family. I'd not thought to have that before...well."

Of course he would not have thought that before. She's heard enough of Westeros from Sansa and Jon to know that him being a bastard would have been an impediment to marriage and nearly anything else. Here, though, that doesn't matter. No one in Narnia cares that his last name is Snow or that he was a man of the Night's Watch or that he was King in the North. "And now you will. We'll have that together."

"Aye." She likes the way he says _that_ , too, the way the syllable stretches out when he says it. Then he kisses her, and she likes that even more. He kisses her with such singlemindedness that for a moment she forgets about anyone and anything else but him, and goodness only knows how long she would have stood there by the remnants of their camp, kissing him, if they were not interrupted by a discreet cough from a few yards away. 

It's Edmund. Jon jumps a bit when he realizes Edmund is there, but Edmund only grins. "My apologies for interrupting these very important proceedings," he says, crossing to them, "but we're near ready to get underway." 

"I should see if Sansa needs any help. Pardon me, Your Grace," Jon says, letting go of Susan's hand to walk off in search of his sister. 

Susan watches him go for a moment, then turns to Edmund. "Jon's going to stay in Narnia," she says, feeling rather giddy about saying it even if it's only to Edmund. 

"I'd ask if you're sure that's what you want, but your face is quite lit up with it, so there's no need," he says.

"It _is_ what I want," Susan assures him. 

"Then I'm glad," Edmund says. "He seems a good man, and if he makes you happy, then there's nothing to which I need to object. Now, let us get on with things, and you can tell Lucy and me the rest of this business with Calormen as we go."

 

*****

The news of what Peter has in mind for the alliance between Narnia and the North doesn't change Jon's mind about staying in Narnia, but he's glad Susan told him of it now and didn't make him wait to be surprised by it when they get to Cair Paravel. It will give him a chance to think about how to address it. Susan was right that it isn't something he wants, even if she doesn't know _all_ of the why.

The other thing he's glad to have is a chance to speak to Sansa about this, and he makes time to do that not long after their return to Cair Paravel is underway. He draws his horse alongside Sansa's and waits until they fall to the rear of the column a bit before speaking. "I'm planning to stay here in Narnia, for good," he says. 

Sansa smiles softly. "I thought you might," she says. "You seem happy when you're with her."

"Aye," Jon says. "I am. What of you?" he asks. "And Peter? Are you happy with him?"

For a moment she seems to be thinking on it, and Jon wonders at it--surely it is not something one would have to think about overmuch, is it? Even if her reason for marrying him is political, he hopes Sansa will find some joy in being wed, for once. "Yes," she says finally. "I am."

Jon is glad for it, even if her hesitance gives him concern. "Susan told me of what he intends for Narnia," he says quietly, not wanting his voice to carry.

"I told him you weren't like to agree," Sansa says. There's a quietness to her voice that seems more than what is needful to avoid being overheard. "That you wouldn't want your children on the Narnian throne."

"No," Jon says. "I don't. You know why."

"It might be easier for you to make your objection if you tell them _why_ ," Sansa says. "Even if you just tell Susan and Peter, or only Susan. I'm sure she'll understand, and you won't even need to tell your children one day, if you don't wish to."

"No. I don't want anyone in Narnia to know." It isn't that he's ashamed of who his parents are, even if it might seem that way. Finding out that his mother was Lyanna Stark, that she'd loved and wanted him and she'd used her dying breaths to ensure his safety had meant more to him than he'd ever been able to say to anyone. He _hadn't_ been able to say it to anyone. Sam had been focused on what it meant for the throne, while Bran had been focused on nothing, really; Daenerys cared only about his identity so far as it was a threat to her claim, not that she was no longer the only of her family left, and he hadn't been able to speak on it with Sansa and Arya long enough to know much of what they thought. 

But now that he knows, he wants to close the door on that part of his life. 

"How will you explain why you don't want this, then?" Sansa asks.

"I don't know," Jon admits. He's aware that any other man would likely leap at the chance to have his son on the throne of any kingdom, much less one such as Narnia. But that isn't a path he wants for any children he might have. "But I will think of something."

He hasn't thought of anything by the time they make camp for the night, however. They are making good time on their return, being a smaller party than they were going west, and Susan is hopeful that they will arrive at Cair Paravel well before the ambassador and his party.

"Are you concerned about the Calormenes?" Jon asks, as they sit round their fire that evening. The day had been warm, and the night air is just cool enough to be pleasant; Jon thinks it feels somewhat strange to not even need a cloak.

"About Rabadash? No," she replies. "But he has seventeen other brothers and any one of them might make a move against us in hopes they'll earn their father's favor. The ambassador is coming to discuss the matter of the Calormene man that Jewel killed when we rescued Edmund. Or at least that's what he _says_ he's coming to discuss. It may be a ruse."

Jon knows very little about the Calormenes but he thinks it likely that is a ruse. "If it comes to war with Calormen, I'll stand with you." He is only one man and not sure how much he can actually do that their own armies can't accomplish, but he thinks it important that she and her family knows he's on their side, even if he is sick to death of fighting.

"I never doubted that you would," she says, taking his hand and squeezing lightly. 

"We'll be glad to have you," says Edmund. "But I'm optimistic we can avoid a conflict. Perhaps the news of our impending alliance with the North will make them less thirsty for war."

"But Calormen knows nothing of the North," says Jon.

"Which is ideal, I think," says Sansa. "They only need know that Narnia has an ally. They don't know that the North isn't in a position to help Narnia yet. They've no idea of the true condition of the Northern armies. You don't even have to lie. A mention of the physical size of the North should be enough, and let them draw their own conclusions about the size of the Northern forces."

"And while the Six Kingdoms has no formal alliance with Narnia," adds Tyrion, "if a word that Sansa's brother rules the south makes the Calormene ambassador think otherwise, what harm is there in that?"

It's agreed all round that it's the most sensible way to proceed. There is some more talk about the Calormenes, with Susan and Edmund telling somewhat more of their time in Tashbaan and what they learned there. While Tyrion has a great many questions, Jon does not like the sound of the place. It seems full of everything Jon misliked about King's Landing in his short time there, with so many people packed into one city, and oppressively hot besides. And he cannot imagine Susan ever being happy in such a place (though he's aware his own feelings for her could be a hindrance in imagining that). 

As the talk wanes, the group begins to break up and retire for the evening. Eventually only Jon is left by the fire, with Susan sitting to his right and Sansa to his left, with Ghost dozing near his feet. There had been a few times at Winterfell, when he'd sat between Sansa and Daenerys and felt torn between the two of them, knowing that whatever he did to please one would upset the other, for reasons he thought he understood at the time but clearly did not. 

It isn't how he feels now. 

He's not sure if Sansa and Susan have gotten to know each other better in his absence. Jon hopes so, but somehow he feels as though this is something that would be better if he does not pry into overmuch.

Jon wonders what might have been different between Daenerys and Sansa if he'd handled things better--if he'd made some effort to help them get to know each other better. Perhaps nothing he could have done would have helped; perhaps he would have only made things worse.

"It seems we are to be sisters twice over," Sansa says, folding her hands in her lap.

"Yes," says Susan, and even though her voice is quiet, Jon can hear her happiness in just that one word.

"I'm happy for you both," Sansa says. "Truly, I am. I expect you won't want to wait too long to be wed, will you?"

"Oh," Susan says, and glances at Jon. "We haven't had much of a chance to speak of it, considering everything. Not yet."

"I'll need to speak with her brother," Jon says. It's Peter he means; he and Edmund have become something like friends on their journey north and back again and he knows Edmund has no objection to him and Susan being together. (He does not think Edmund was making a jest when he said he would kill Jon if he broke Susan's heart; but Jon has no intentions of doing so.)

"I hardly think Peter will oppose your marriage, considering how much he wants this alliance," Sansa says. 

"I'm aware," Jon says. "But I want to speak to him regardless." It feels like the proper thing to do. He doesn't want to assume anything, especially when Peter seems keen to make plans about the way Jon and Susan's life together will go, and Jon is determined to set that straight before anything is done that can't be undone.

Susan shifts beside him, leaning in a bit to meet Sansa's eyes. "I know Peter has… ideas about how things ought to be," she says carefully. "Jon and I haven't had much time to speak about it, but we have talked about it enough to know that what Peter wants for us isn't what we want for us." She glances at Jon again, then back to Sansa. "I don't have a particular objection to any children we might have inheriting the Narnian throne. _Someone_ will need to carry on after us, after all. It is our duty to protect Narnia. But Jon doesn't want that life for our children, and I respect that. If it were only me, it would be different. It isn't only me, though. So if your children with Peter are to inherit the North, then perhaps Edmund's children, whenever he marries, can be the future of Narnia. If he is agreeable."

Jon can feel Sansa's eyes on him then. He _knows_ she wants him to tell Susan his true objection to their children inheriting anything, and he's terrified that she will say something that will give away what he wants so desperately to keep quiet. 

Sansa says nothing, and Susan goes on. "But I do support the alliance with you and the North, and I want our families and our countries to be friends, no matter what the details come to be. If you are ever in any need of us, Narnia will answer. I promise."

"I appreciate that," Sansa says. "And I hope, in time, that if Narnia needs the North, we will be able to answer."

"Good. Let us hope neither of us is in a position where we need ask, because that means peace for all of us." She leans in and kisses Jon's cheek, then stands, straightening her skirts. "Now I'll say good night. I think morning will come far too early--the days are getting longer, this time of year."

Jon and Sansa both say good night in return. He's aware of the weight of Sansa's eyes on him, and he wishes she would let it go instead of wrestling with it like Ghost worries at a bone. It isn't until Susan is well out of earshot that Sansa says, "Jon, you must tell her." Sansa's voice is hardly even a whisper, yet there is an urgency in it that is unmistakeable. "She's making a decision about her life with you, about the future of her country and her place in it, without having all the facts. Even if you only tell her and not the others--you must be honest with her."

"I will not."

"Jon--"

" _No._ " It is a great effort to keep his voice low, despite the hot rush of anger he feels at Sansa just then. It isn't as though Jon has never been angry before. He has, and often angry enough that he cannot even remember much of it later--he'd felt it as a boy, when Robb said he could never be Lord of Winterfell because he was a bastard, and again on the Wall when Ser Alliser had taunted him in just the wrong way, and when he had bashed Ramsay Bolton's face to a bloody pulp--but never towards Sansa. Not like this.

Daenerys had told him of her brother Viserys, and how he had warned her never to _wake the dragon_ , and what it meant when she did, how he took it out on her--is that what this rage in Jon has always been, some ferocity of Targaryen temperament he had never been able to name? Jon forces himself to take a breath, pressing his palms against his thighs to keep from curling his hands into fists. "You swore you would say nothing," he says. "Not a word, Sansa."

"I won't," she whispers. "But you should."

"I can't." The Targaryen name means nothing here, and Jon would not want it even if it did mean something. And since it means nothing, he will say nothing, and let the name come to an end. Jon does not think Susan will look at him differently if she knows. He's come to know her well enough to know that she does not think in that way. So it isn't _that_ that holds him back.

Yet it is. He has told Susan so much about him and she has accepted it all without question. If this is the thing, the one thing she cannot accept about him, he does not think he will be able to bear it.

So he will keep his silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this update is a little on the short side, but I am ridiculously swamped at work (and taking on a second job next week! urk). But I wanted to get *something* out here so you know I haven't abandoned this fic. As always, I deeply appreciate your comments! Thank you for sticking along for the ride.


	19. From Whom No Secrets Are Hid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel we could all use some guidance from Aslan at the moment. I had thought, perhaps, that he might--well, you see, Aslan has a way of knowing what's on our hearts. It's no use keeping secrets from him. It isn't as though he knows our precise thoughts, I don't mean to say that. But he has a way of giving us a nudge here and there if we're about to do something he would rather we oughtn't."

Peter is in the bailey to greet them when they return to Cair Paravel. "You've made it before the ambassador," he says, as Susan and her brother and sister turn their tired horses over to the waiting stableboys.

"I'm glad for it," says Susan. "It will give you and me and Jon and Sansa a chance to speak before he arrives. Could we speak now?"

"Actually," says Jon, "I'd like to speak with Your Grace alone for a moment, then Sansa and Susan can join us." He considers adding _if that's agreeable with everyone_ , then thinks better of it. He needs to speak with Peter whether it's agreeable to all or not. "There are things of which we ought to speak, the two of us."

Peter doesn't seem inclined to object, and Jon is glad for it even if he can feel the weight of Sansa's eyes on him. For their entire journey back to Cair Paravel, she reminded him at every opportunity that he ought to tell Susan of his true parentage. And every time she did, he reminded her that he had no intention of doing so.

"As you wish," Peter says, inclining his head toward the keep proper. "We'll speak in my solar. Our sisters can join us later." 

Jon follows Peter inside, up the wide main stairway and along the spacious corridor that runs from the more public to the more private areas of the castle. Peter's solar is well-appointed, as is all of Cair Paravel, furnished with gleaming polished wood and touches of cool marble and sparkling glass. Peter crosses to a low sideboard and pours them each a goblet of wine. "I imagine either Susan or Sansa--or both--have told you of my thoughts of how we ought to go forward with this alliance between our families and kingdoms," he says, handing Jon one of the goblets.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"We're to be brothers, you and I," says Peter. "We've no need for formalities and titles. Only plain speech. You must call me Peter."

"As you wish." Jon takes a sip of his wine. It is very good, as everything has been at Cair Paravel. "First, I'm asking for your permission to marry Susan. I suppose that as a queen in her own right, she does not truly need your permission to wed, but as you are High King of Narnia, I felt I ought to do you the courtesy of asking."

"You're right," Peter says, "you needn't ask my permission. Susan is as free to decide who she will or will not wed as Sansa is. But I appreciate the courtesy, and though you do not need my permission to wed, you do have my blessing. I hope Aslan's blessing will be on the two of you as well."

"Thank you." 

"But I think that is not the only reason you wished to speak with me, is it, Jon?"

"No, it isn't." Jon thinks it best to be direct in this; Peter seems a man who appreciates frankness, something Jon can respect. "Susan and Sansa both spoke of your wish to make Susan your heir and have our child inherit the throne of Narnia when the time comes."

"That is my plan, yes. Sansa expressed that she thought you might not be agreeable to this arrangement."

"My sister speaks truly. I have no wish for any children Susan and I might have to inherit any throne."

"May I ask why not?" Peter takes a seat on one of the low couches before the fire, gesturing for Jon to be seated as well. "It seems strange for a man to want to deprive his children of such a birthright, especially a man who has known the responsibilities of ruling."

It is only then, when Peter speaks of Jon's brief time as a king, that the idea of exactly how he ought to phrase his objection occurs to him. "It is because I have known that responsibility that I do not want it for our future children," he says, taking a seat across from the Narnian king. "I believe that rather than strengthening the union between our lands, it would only weaken it, and turn the sentiments of the Northmen against Narnia."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Peter says.

"When I gave up my crown to Daenerys Targaryen, it was not a popular decision with our bannermen," Jon explains. He is not telling the entire story here, it's true, but he is not lying, either. "It turned much sentiment in the North against me. I fear that if any children I may father are in line for any throne, even that of a land far from the north as Narnia is, the North may see it as an act meant to undermine Sansa's rule."

"We can put language in the terms of our alliance to make it very clear that your children have no claims to the North, if that would ease your mind," Peter suggests. 

"I fear that would not be enough," Jon says. "I don't know what Sansa has told you of the Northmen, but they are a suspicious people, especially after all they have been through in their fight for independence. Their suspicions are understandable. And I fear that as I have abandoned my vows to the Night's Watch for a second time, even with Sansa's blessing, they may not trust any promises I make. It would be best for the relationship between our kingdoms if you do not put my children with Susan in line for the Narnian throne."

All of these things are true. It isn't _the_ reason, however; but Jon hopes it will be _enough_ of a reason that Peter will accept it. "In addition, even though Lord Tyrion seems to think that my brother Bran will be agreeable to Sansa pardoning me, there are more than a few among the lords of the Six Kingdoms who were opposed to my sentence to the Night's Watch and wanted me executed for what I did. They will be angry that I've been pardoned as it is. If they learn that I've married a foreign queen and our children are in line for that throne, they might retaliate against Sansa and the North for it. It isn't a war the North would win, even with Narnia's help."

Peter leans back a bit and gives Jon a long look. "You'll forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that so much of the North has ill will toward you," he says, "when they allowed Sansa to venture beyond the Wall, accompanied by a Lannister, to look for you."

It is a fair point, and one that Jon cannot easily refute. There is really only one thing that Jon can say to it. "Do you think any man would dare tell their queen she cannot do something she is set on doing, when that queen is Sansa Stark?" 

Peter laughs, then. "No, I do not," he says. "I certainly will not be able to say no to her in anything."

"I have managed it," Jon admits, "but there were times when I would have been better served not to." 

"I can imagine. She has given me good advice in her time here. I only hope I will be as helpful to her as she has been to me."

"If you make it clear to the North that you've come to Winterfell as Sansa's husband, bringing an ally to the north, and not as someone who comes to usurp her and take her throne for your own, then you'll be a great help to her," Jon says. "The North will never be under outside rule again, whether that be the south or anyone else." Jon had underestimated how much the Northmen would care about this, even in the face of a far greater threat, had underestimated how disinclined they would be to accept Daenerys as their queen. Love had blinded him to reality.

"I have no interest in usurping your sister's rule," Peter assures him. "Giving up my own crown ought to reassure them of that."

"Perhaps." And perhaps not. But Jon thinks it might be enough. Then again, he is not someone who has any real idea what the north does or does not want, given his misjudgements so far. 

"In any case, I'll consider your wishes, and Susan's, in the matter of Narnia's succession. I would prefer to name Susan my heir," Peter says frankly. "With the two of you wed, naming her my heir means more stability for Narnia. The fact that none of us are yet wed as it is makes the future of Narnia more uncertain. If I name Edmund or Lucy my heir, and neither of them marries and has children, it will fall to Susan and your children whether you wish it or not."

"I understand," says Jon. He does see the sense of it, even if he doesn't care for it at all. "Susan and Edmund have told me of the charge Aslan's given you--to care for Narnia and protect it. I met Aslan on the journey north."

"You did?"

"Aye. When the bridge collapsed and Susan and I fell into the river, it was Aslan that pulled me out of the water."

"I say," Peter exclaims, his tone one of surprise, and he sits a little straighter. "None of the messengers included that information in their reports."

"They wouldn't have seen it," Jon says. "I was washed far downstream, quite a way from the others. I would have drowned if he hadn't pulled me out."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Only that he would not have let me drown, and that I had to continue north to find the free folk and take them home--that they'd be safe now, because the Long Night will never come again." 

"And now you've done that." Peter looks at him thoughtfully. "So Aslan's shown himself to you and to Lord Tyrion, but no one else. And he's been quiet, of late. Hmm. Well, he's not a _tame_ lion," he adds, as if that explains everything to do with Aslan.

"Does he show himself often?"

"No. Edmund and Lucy saw him after the battle at Anvard, when he punished Rabadash for what he'd done, but before that it's been some time since we saw him."

The more Jon learns of Aslan, the more he's certain that Aslan is some sort of god; and though Aslan is different than the old gods or the Seven or the Lord of Light in that he has a physical presence and can actually be seen and heard, he seems just as cryptic and mysterious as any god in what he truly wants. "Perhaps he'll speak to you soon," Jon suggests. "When the alliance is settled."

Peter takes a long drink from his goblet, as if using the time to think of his response. "I do hope so. I feel we could all use some guidance from Aslan at the moment. I had thought, perhaps, that he might--well, you see, Aslan has a way of knowing what's on our hearts. It's no use keeping secrets from him. It isn't as though he knows our precise thoughts, I don't mean to say that. But he has a way of giving us a nudge here and there if we're about to do something he would rather we oughtn't."

Then he stands, placing the goblet on the table beside him. "Now. Let us send for Susan and Sansa, so we can work out the terms of this agreement."

Peter sends a servant to ask Sansa and Susan to join them, and they do, some time later. Both women have washed off the dust of their journey and changed into fresh clothes, and when Susan takes a seat beside him clad in a simple gown of soft purple and cream silk, Jon feels rather shabby in comparison. Her dark hair is bound with a purple and gold ribbon, exposing the pale line of her neck, and normally that would be driving Jon to some distraction even with the business of these negotiations to think on.

But all Jon can think on is something Peter said before Susan and Sansa arrived. _Aslan has a way of knowing what's on our hearts. It's no use keeping secrets from him._ Aslan knew about the free folk, about the Night King and the Long Night and about Daenerys--he'd needed no explanation when Jon asked him if he'd done _the right thing_. And if Aslan knows about the Night King and the Long Night and about Daenerys, then he surely knows of Jon's parentage. 

Aslan isn't a person. Nor is he truly a lion. Whatever he is, he doesn't seem to be the type of not-a-person to go about telling other people's secrets for the sake of it, yet he doesn't seem to be the type of not-a-person to be particularly interested in _keeping_ other people's secrets if he thought they were the sort of things that he thought someone might need to know for their own good. 

Jon had hoped no one in Narnia would ever know of his true parentage, that his true name is Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. But _Aslan_ surely knows. And if Aslan knows, then Jon may not be able to keep it quiet. 

There is a pause in the proceedings while Edmund and Lucy join them. Peter explains what he and Jon spoke of earlier, about Jon's reservations about any of his and Susan's future children inheriting the throne of Narnia. Jon steals a glance at Susan then and tries to imagine what she might say if Jon told her the truth about who he is. It isn't something he can picture in his mind. What he _can_ picture, however, is what she might say, how she might react if she found out from someone _other_ than him--from Aslan, perhaps. 

Sansa is right. He has to tell her. 

It's on his mind for the remainder of the evening. The negotiations go for some time; Susan orders supper sent up, and they go on discussing how to go forward over their meal. Edmund is willing to be named Peter's heir, and so that sticking point is taken care of. Another is not, however: Lucy is still quite opposed to Peter leaving Narnia entirely. Peter tries to reason with her, but as they are all quite tired from their trip across the country and back again, Peter and Lucy get quite cross with one another and the discussion stalls. Susan suggests that they all retire for the evening and start fresh in the morning.

She comes to his room sometime later, just as Jon was contemplating sleep. "Are you all right?" she asks, the door closing softly behind her. "You were quiet all through our talks. Did you and Peter have a disagreement when you spoke?"

"No," he says. "Nothing like that. He spoke plainly and so did I. I think we understand each other better now."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Susan touches his cheek, her fingers gentle against his skin. "It seems Peter's going to go and live with Sansa and I've made my peace with that, even if Lucy hasn't yet, so you won't be crossing each other's paths too much--but I'm glad the two of you found a way to get on. I was a bit worried. Peter can be stubborn at times."

"So can I."

Susan smiles. "I'm aware," she says fondly, and loops her arms around his neck. She leans in to kiss him and Jon slips his hands about her waist to draw her close. It's been near on a fortnight since he was with her last--longer for her, he reminds himself as she kisses him eagerly--and he wants her quite badly. "Let me stay with you tonight."

It's all too tempting, and for a moment Jon nearly gives in. But he stops himself, and instead of tugging the ribbon from her hair to see her dark curls spill down her back as he wants to do, he takes her hand. "I have to tell you something."

"What's wrong?" Susan's voice is all gentle concern, and that makes what he has to tell her both easier _and_ harder to say, if that is possible.

"Nothing is wrong, exactly. But I've kept something from you. I thought it was the right thing to do, and now I'm not sure it is." 

"Whatever it is, it's clearly troubling you," says Susan, squeezing his hand. "I think it might ease your mind for you to get it off your chest and out in the open."

Perhaps it will. Perhaps it will not. Jon had thought that would be the case when he told Daenerys the truth, too, and it had ended up ruining them. _Susan is not Daenerys_ , he reminds himself for what feels like half a hundred times. _It was about Daenerys, then; this isn't about Susan. It won't mean for her what it meant for Daenerys._

Jon sits at the edge of the bed, and Susan sits beside him, her hand in his. "Sansa and I are not brother and sister," he says, deciding that the best way to say this is simply to come out with it. "We're cousins."

"What?"

"Her father, Ned Stark, and my mother, Lyanna Stark, were brother and sister." There's something of a relief in being able to say _my mother, Lyanna Stark_. "Ned Stark told everyone, including me and all of his children, that I was his bastard son. That's what we all grew up believing."

"Why did he do that? Surely he must have had a reason."

"Because my father… my father was Rhaegar Targaryen, the son of the Mad King. He and my mother fell in love in secret and went off together." He explains that Lyanna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and that her brother Brandon rode south to demand her return, that he and his father Rickard were killed by the Mad King for it, and then Robert and Ned rebelled against the crown and led the war that ended with the deaths of Rhaegar and his father. "When Ned Stark found my mother, she made him promise to keep me safe. As she bled to death on her birthing bed, she made him promise to keep me safe, to raise me as his bastard. If Robert ever found out--"

"He would have killed you," she says softly, squeezing his hand. "Oh, Jon. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you never got a chance to know your parents."

Jon has only told this story twice--though in truth, the second time it was Bran who told it to Sansa and Arya, not him, so truly he's only told it once. Neither of those times, nor when Sam or Bran told him what they knew, did anyone say to him _I'm sorry. I'm sorry you never got a chance to know your parents._ Perhaps Susan can say this because it does not directly involve her family, not the way it involved Daenerys and Sansa and Arya, and he does not _blame_ any of them for not saying it; but when Susan says it he finds a hot, hard lump rise in his throat that he can't swallow down, and his vision blurs a little, stinging his eyes. Her words affect him in a way he had not anticipated. "Aye."

Susan seems to sense the emotion that's choking him, as she doesn't immediately ask him all of the questions he thinks she must surely want to ask, things he thinks he would ask if he was in her position. Instead, she's quiet for a time, before asking, "Does Sansa know this?"

"Aye," Jon says, when he feels is voice is steady enough. "And Arya, and Bran."

"And she still calls you her brother."

"Aye."

"I suppose it must be easier for you to go on thinking of yourselves that way," Susan says. "If I found out that Peter wasn't my brother, but my cousin, it would be very difficult for me to stop thinking of him as my brother and I don't think I would want to." She lets go his hand to slip her arm around his shoulders, and not for the first time Jon is grateful for her comfort, and the fact that she simply _knows_ when he needs it.

"You must tell me if I'm prying into things you'd rather not speak of," she says after a time of quiet. "But… the Mad King? He would be your grandfather, correct?"

Jon nods. He thinks he knows where she is going with this, but he will let her say it as he doesn't have the heart to.

"Is this the same Mad King that was Daenerys's father?"

Jon nods again. "My father and Daenerys were brother and sister, though she was too young to ever have met him."

"I don't know the laws of Westeros… would that have made you the heir? Not Daenerys?"

"Aye."

"Oh." Susan is quiet then, and Jon can _see_ her thinking, turning it over in her mind. "I suppose this isn't a secret in Westeros anymore?" she says presently. "Other people know?"

"Lord Tyrion knows," Jon says. "And Ser Brienne and, I expect, most of the north. Some in the south. It's difficult to know just how many." He sighs. "It's why I didn't want to tell you or anyone here. I wanted the Targaryen name to just… vanish. Westeros needs to move on."

"I think you're right." Susan leans her head against his shoulder, and Jon feels a rush of relief so strong it is like to overwhelm him. "If you want to keep it between us, I think that's a good idea. It's your secret to tell or not. The idea of living here where no one knows about it must be freeing."

She _understands_. How could he ever have doubted that she would? Jon feels half a fool for ever thinking she would not understand or that she would look at him differently. "Something like that," Jon admits. "Tormund, the free folk--they don't know either. That's not the only reason I liked being with them, but it's one of the reasons."

"We don't have to tell Peter and Edmund and Lucy unless you feel you must," Susan says. "It isn't my story to tell, so I will not dare to say what you must do or not do. I don't think they would see you any differently, though."

"I do not want to tell anyone else," Jon says. 

"Then you don't have to. As far as anyone in Narnia is concerned, you will be Jon Snow, Ned Stark's son." Susan sits up then, lightly touching his jaw to tip his face toward her. "If that's who you want to be. And if you want to be Jon Targaryen--"

"Aegon," Jon says. "The name my mother gave me was Aegon."

"--if you want to be Aegon Targaryen, so be it. I'll support your choice."

"I'm Jon Snow," he says. "It's who I'll always be." Jon Snow is the name by which he's lived his life, for good and for ill, and he can now never see himself as anything but that man.

"That's the man I want to marry," she says. "That's the man I love."

"That's the man who loves you." He hadn't meant to say it, yet he did, and he finds that it's true. He'd not thought it possible. The place where Daenerys had been in his heart is still raw and might never _not_ be. But there is room for Susan in his heart as well, and room for what they will build together.


	20. The Ambassador

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "To hear is to obey," Ambassador Tarkhaan says, inclining his head slightly. "His Gracious Excellency acknowledges that in the heat of battle, some lives will be lost, and as Your Majesty will recall, the assault of the most noble land of Archenland was made by the most learned Prince of Calormen, without the knowledge or consent of his wise and inestimable father, the Tisroc, whose reign is and was and ever shall be."
> 
> *****
> 
> Since some people missed my "no bitching about season 8" request: I have turned comments to moderated. If all you comment with is a bitch about season 8, and have nothing to say about the story itself, I will not approve your comment. I do not want to discuss the merits of the season and am not required to provide you a venue in which to do so. 
> 
> If you want to talk about the fic however, I am happy to chat with you!

A long morning of riding, a long afternoon of negotiating, and a long evening of speaking of things that were difficult for Jon to say and Susan to hear left them both drained, and it was long past midnight when they finally fell asleep in each other's arms. It's early in the morning when Jon wakes her, his hand soft on her shoulder. "Susan, wake up," he says gently.

"Oh, goodness." It's still quite dark, but she can still see the look of concern creasing Jon's brow. "What is it?"

Jon sits at the edge of the bed. They'd fallen asleep fully dressed after hours of talking, and he looks as rumpled as she feels. "Edmund sent a servant to say that the scouts have spotted the ambassador's ship. It will likely arrive about noon."

"All right." She pushes herself to sitting and tries to wipe the sleep from her eyes. "I should go and get dressed." But she's reluctant to leave; it's warm, here in the bed with Jon, and though they'd done nothing but sleep after talking, she feels even closer to him than she did before.

"Would that we had a little more time." Jon seems to feel much the same as she does. "I hope his visit will not be a long one." He touches her cheek, brushing her hair back from her face where it's adhered itself to her cheek in her sleep. "Is there somewhat I ought to do?"

"I don't think so." Mirac Tarkhaan, the Calormene ambassador, makes her nervous, especially when she remembers how easily he'd convinced her to consider Rabadash's suit before she had even met him, and she is not eager to see him again. "Edmund's the best diplomat of us all, so likely it's best if he does most of the talking."

"If you think it will help deter Calormen at all, do not hesitate to mention our alliance," Jon says. "You know how Sansa feels about it, and I agree with her. Let the ambassador believe Narnia has powerful allies, so he will go back and tell his master the same."

"I think Edmund will agree. I don't trust myself to say anything," Susan admits. "When I think of how foolish I was, how easily swayed by their flattery, it makes me angry with myself and with them."

"Don't be angry with yourself." Jon kisses her softly. "There is no looking back. Only forward. And Calormen is no threat to you so long as I am with you."

That reassures her a great deal, even though there is still a knot of dread in her belly that she knows will not fully leave her until the Calormenes are gone. She kisses Jon again and puts her clothes into some semblance of decency before sneaking back to her own chambers. It feels silly for her to be sneaking about so in her own home, but it wouldn't be proper to make it widely known that she is spending nights with Jon before they are wed.

It seems it will be known to at least one other, though, as Verbana, her maid, is already laying out a fresh gown for her and all that goes with it, and her breakfast has already been sent up. "Good morning, Your Majesty," she says, as if it is perfectly normal and expected for her to not find Susan in her own bed of a morning. "I've laid out your blue damask and your pearls, unless you've another preference?"

"No, thank you, Verbana. The blue damask is a smart choice." It's something that suits Susan, as blue is her color and the dress is well-made, but neither the gown nor choice of jewelry are so fine that the ambassador will get any notions that they are considering his visit a state occasion. "You always take such good care of me. I missed you while I was out on my travels."

Verbana blushes at the compliment, and as with many of the tree-spirits that serve as Susan and Lucy's ladies, she sheds a few petals from her hair whenever she does so. Verbana's petals are a pale purple. "It's my pleasure, Your Majesty," she says. "It's an honor to serve the Queens of Narnia. My ancestors were attendants to the Narnian queens of old, Your Majesty may know."

"Yes, I remember." Susan takes a seat and Verbana begins brushing out her hair with the gentlest of touches; she knows Verbana likely disapproves of the sorry state of her hair this morning and loves her dearly for making no comment on it. "Your mother was very pleased that you came into my service, I remember."

"Yes, Your Majesty. She had not had the honor of attending a Queen of Narnia and was happy the chance should fall to me." Verbana finishes untangling Susan's hair and sections off parts of the sides to bring back into a braid. "I hope you do not think me impertinent for asking, Your Majesty, but there has been talk that you and the young lord from Westeros will soon announce your betrothal?"

Now it is Susan's turn to blush. "Well… it has not yet been announced, but yes. We will."

"Oh!" Verbana lets out an ear-splitting squeal of joy (literally ear-splitting, as she's only inches from Susan's ear) and drops all the hairpins she'd been holding in her willowy fingers. "Oh, Your Majesty, I hope you don't mind me saying so but this is wonderful news! He is ever so much more suitable than…" The young tree-spirit blushes and bends to pick up all the scattered pins she dropped in her excitement. 

"I'll need your help to look presentable," Susan goes on, to cover her maid's embarrassment. Perhaps it was impertinent for a maid to say, but Verbana isn't at all incorrect in her assessment of Jon's merits compared to those of her former suitor. Susan is well aware how servants talk, so if her maid approves of Jon, it is likely that the other servants will feel the same--which means Jon's transition to life in Narnia will be easier on him. "Especially in the matter of the dress. You always make sure I'm well turned out no matter the occasion, so of course I must put my dress in your capable hands."

"Oh… Your Majesty, I've not made a wedding gown." Verbana's eyes go quite round with awe. "Are you sure you wouldn't want someone more experienced?"

"There hasn't been a royal wedding in Narnia for over a hundred and twenty years, Verbana," Susan reminds her. "And you have been dressing me for the last ten. Who could be more experienced than you? I would not have anyone else dress me for such an important day."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Verbana is so quivering with excitement that there is quite the drift of petals across the floor by the time she is finished arranging Susan's hair. She's just helping Susan into her dress when there's a knock at the door.

"Susan? It's Edmund--may I come in?"

"In a moment." Verbana laces Susan's gown and makes a few adjustments. "That's all, Verbana, thank you. Please let my brother in and I'll take care of the rest after I've seen him."

"Very good, Your Majesty." She gathers her things and lets Edmund in, curtsying as she departs. 

"Is something wrong, Edmund?" Susan asks, as Verbana closes the door behind her.

"No. I only wanted to be sure you were all right about meeting with the ambassador."

"I would rather not, but it must be done whether I care for it or no," Susan says. "I can't help but feel gloomy about it, as though his visit is just the start of other less than pleasant things. I won't hold Jewel responsible for the death of the Calormene man. She did it to save me."

"And to save me as well." 

"If the Tisroc is demanding some retribution for it, he's going to be quite disappointed."

"The man's companions seemed understanding, when the smoke cleared and we were able to sort out what had happened," Edmund says, helping himself to a scone from Susan's breakfast tray. "But of course they would have understood the enchantment first hand. It likely sounded like nonsense when they attempted to explain it to anyone at home. I doubt the Tisroc cares at all about the life of a common trader. He has never shown an interest in his common people before. It's likely a pretense to start trouble."

"I agree."

"I know there's been no announcement that you and Jon intend to marry," Edmund says. "But if it comes to it, I may say something about it to the ambassador in order to speak of the alliance--I know that isn't in writing yet, either, but it will be soon enough. I think Sansa's suggestion to hint at the size of the North a good one. I don't want it to come to war with Calormen again."

"Nor do I."

"Peter and I will deal with it, I promise," he says. "I'll ask our Westerosi guests to sit in a place of honor in the hall, so the ambassador can see them and draw his own conclusions about the strength they represent." Edmund finishes his scone and kisses Susan's cheek. "Chin up, Su. He won't be here for long, and then we can get on with the business of planning weddings."

 

*****

The ship from Calormen arrives near mid-day. Sansa watches it from the balcony off the throne room with Peter. As it pulls up to the dock she thinks of Arya, and her ship, and wonders if she will ever hear from her sister again. There is nothing about the ship that looks like any Northern ship; this ship has sails of crimson and orange and all of it very sleek and gleaming in the sun. It is the sort of ship that, if she had seen it in Kings Landing with Shae at her side, she would have made up some fanciful story of a Dornish ship that had sailed off to find a mysterious treasure and returned with wealth beyond imagining. 

Those were stories of a foolish child, however, and Sansa no longer has a mind for such things.

There is a long wait from the time the ship docks and the time people begin to disembark. It is some distance from the dock to the castle, so Sansa cannot hear anything that is said or done down below. She can see, though, and finds it all rather strange.

The first to disembark are twenty men with spears and shields, in tunics of orange and red and blue and golden caps topped with spikes. They form a double column along the docks and wait, their tunics and spiked caps glittering in the morning sun.

Some more time passes, and then six men bearing a litter emerge from the ship. The litter is hung with green and yellow silks that are drawn close about it, and the men bearing it walk slowly, as if carrying a great weight. The spearmen flank the litter for the long walk from the pier to the castle proper.

"It's a bit much for an ambassador, I think," Peter muses. "What sort of man takes a litter for such a walk? Edmund says the streets of Tashbaan are hot and crowded and smelly, so the nobles there take litters wherever they go. But it seems rather silly to parade yourself in front of the people you rule and then do nothing to get to know them."

It's the sort of thing Joffrey would do, Sansa thinks. "I expect he's doing it here for show," she says. "To try to impress you and your lords."

"He's utterly failed to do so," Peter says. "At impressing me, anyway. I think he just looks foolish. Come, let's go in. The sooner we greet him and find out what he wants, the sooner we can send him on his way."

They do not go down to meet the ambassador in the yard. Instead, Peter and his brother and sisters gather in the throne room, so that they might have the ambassador brought to them. It isn't the first time Sansa has seen this room, but it _is_ the first time she's seen this room with all four of the kings and queens of Narnia seated on their thrones. Sansa finds it difficult to imagine what this would be like without Peter. Other than their crowns, they wear few jewels and their clothes, although fabrics rich in color and cut, are somewhat plainer than she's seen them wear before; Sansa wonders if that is meant to convey to the ambassador that they do not consider him to be quite so important that they mean to make his visit a state occasion. A rank of centaurs line each side of the throne room, bristling with gleaming armor and weapons from dais to doorway.

Sansa, Jon, and Tyrion are seated nearby on cushioned seats, as is fitting for those with the status of honored guests. Brienne and a number of Sansa's guards stand behind them, and Ghost is nearby. While Sansa has seen Ghost sprawled out before a fire or on a rug more often than not of late, today he seems restless, pacing until Jon brings him to heel with a word. Most of his fur has grown back since his bear attack, but the scar that remains makes him look even more fearsome than he did before.

"He's taking his time," Tyrion mutters.

"Making a show of it," says Sansa. She glances at the Pevensies on their thrones. Peter's face is stern and rather cool, all traces of the warm, thoughtful man she's come to know having seemingly vanished; Susan looks quite pale, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap; and Edmund and Lucy seem equally serious. 

Presently the doors open and the double column of men in spiked caps enter, though now without their spears, flanking a slim, dark-skinned man with a long beard dyed red and twisted to a point at the end. By the richness of his robes, Sansa thinks he must be the ambassador, having left his litter behind. There is something about the way his hands are folded into the sleeves of his robes that reminds her of Lord Varys, but something about the angles of his face and the gleam of amused disinterest in his eyes reminds her even more strongly of Littlefinger, in all the least pleasant of ways. 

From what Sansa has heard of Susan's Calormene suitor, he was cruel and stupid; but the ambassador has a different look--that of someone cruel and _intelligent_.

"Ambassador Tarkhaan," says Peter. "I hope your journey was a smooth and pleasant one."

"It was, Your Majesty," says the ambassador, with a formal bow. "I bring greetings from His Gracious Excellency the Tisroc of Calormen, may-he-live-forever."

" _May-he-live-forever_ ," echo the spearmen in their spiked caps, as if by reflex.

"It is the wish of the Tisroc, whose reign must and shall be interminable, that I convey his gratitude for the efforts of your sisters to free his leal subjects from the imposter who styled herself the Crimson Queen," the ambassador continues. 

"We accept his gratitude with thanks," says Peter. 

"Yet I must also convey, O king, the disappointment and grief of the irrefutable and sapient Tisroc, may-he-live-forever--"

"-- _may-he-live-forever_!" comes the echo again from the spearmen.

"--that one of his precious subjects came to mortal harm in this conflict. As stated by the poets, with whom the gods have blessed Calormen both in number and eloquence, 'every subject of mine, O my people, is as precious to me as the each of the jewels in my treasure-house, and I note the loss of one as dearly as I note a star that falls from the sky.'"

"Truly, your master must be prostrate with grief," says Edmund. "For many lives were lost in the Calormene attack on Anvard. Do convey to the Tisroc our utmost sympathies in this time of mourning."

"To hear is to obey," Ambassador Tarkhaan says, inclining his head slightly. "His Gracious Excellency acknowledges that in the heat of battle, some lives will be lost, and as Your Majesty will recall, the assault of the most noble land of Archenland was made by the most learned Prince of Calormen, without the knowledge or consent of his wise and inestimable father, the Tisroc, whose reign is and was and ever shall be."

" _And ever shall be_ ," echo the spearmen.

Sansa feels Jon shift impatiently in the seat beside her. Knowing how Jon prefers plain speech, he likely finds the flowery and circuitous ramblings of the Calormene ambassador even more tiresome than she does.

"Sons are more precious in the eyes of their fathers than rubies, sayeth the poets," the ambassador continues. "Yet they do not often have the wisdom and discernment of mind that comes from age and experience, especially the age and experience of His Gracious Excellency. The poets note that deep drafts from the fountain of reason are desirable in order to extinguish the fire of youthful love. The Tisroc, may-he-live-forever--"

" _may-he-live-forever!_ "

"--has dealt with his wayward and love-struck son with just such drafts from the fountain of reason, and has prevailed upon me to convey his earnest and true desire for improved relations between the most blessed land of Calormen and the barbarian land of Narnia."

"I believe improved relations are in the best interest all round, Ambassador," says Edmund.

"It pleases this one to hear your words," says the ambassador. "As it will please the Tisroc, whose reign is and was and ever shall be." He waits for the customary response from his escort before continuing. "Yet true peace between our lands will only be a poet's fevered daydreams while the matter of His Gracious Excellency's unfortunate subject still lies between us. It sorely grieves the wise and sympathetic Tisroc, whose generous heart and thoughtful mind have only the health and prosperity of his people as his most earnest wish, to think of one of his subjects, entrusted to his care and protection, enslaved by the enchantments of a sorceress and brutally murdered while not being in possession of his faculties. The very earth and all its foundations cry out at such an injustice, Your Majesties."

The ambassador has used such flowery language to couch his threat that Sansa nearly missed it--but there is no mistaking it as a threat. There is a low growl from Ghost, at Jon's feet, and, hearing it, the ambassador turns to them. Sansa has seen many false expressions of courtesy with no feeling behind them in her time in King's Landing; the ambassador's expression is yet another.

"I did not realize that Your Majesties were entertaining guests," he says, as if he has just noticed their presence for the first time. (Sansa is certain that is not the case.) "My apologies for disrupting the visit of guests, for a welcome visitor is as desirable as sapphires in the eyes of a host."

"Your arrival is in no way a disruption," says Edmund. "On the contrary, the timing of your visit is quite fortunate. Ambassador Tarkhaan, allow me to present our honored guests from Westeros; Her Majesty, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell; her brother, Jon Snow; Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King to Bran Stark, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and Ser Brienne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. You've arrived just as we are finalizing an alliance between ourselves and Queen Sansa. In fact, we were planning a feast this evening to mark the occasion. We would be honored if you and your men would join us."

"To hear is to accept, O King," says the ambassador. "It will be a great honor for this one to dine with you and your guests this evening, and I look forward to it with much pleasure. I recall the last feast in this hall to which I was invited, after your tournament in which the Tisroc's son achieved many great feats, and my lips remember fondly the taste of that most sublime meal. However, this one would be a most grievous disappointment to the Tisroc, may-he-live-forever--"

" _may-he-live-forever!_ "

"--if I did not return to the most delicate matter of His Gracious Excellency's unfortunate subject."

"Truly, you are a dedicated servant," says Peter.

"I dedicate my meager talents to the service of His Gracious Excellency." Sansa has known few other people who can say so little with so very many words as this ambassador does, and wonders if this is customary speech in Calormen. "And that service now requires this one, O King, to remind Your Majesty of the maxim of the poets, 'Whosoever plucks out the eye of one must repay with an eye of his own, and whosoever causes the loss of a finger must repay with a finger of his own; it is so whether for the loss of one hair from another's head or unto one's very life.' It was explained to this one that it was one of your Narnians who dealt the killing blow--a mouse, if this one is not mistaken? To free the Queen Susan from his grasp?"

"You are not mistaken," says Edmund shortly.

"Then it is with the heaviest of hearts that I must convey the wish of His Gracious Excellency, the Tisroc, that this creature return to Tashbaan with us to face the Tisroc's justice." The ambassador's tone is such that he sounds terribly distraught about this situation, yet there is a gleam in his eye that Sansa has seen before, the expression of someone who is only playing at being sorry and is actually quite enjoying the upheaval that follows in his wake.

"I will not allow that to happen." Susan has not spoken until this moment; now that she has, her voice has a chill to it. "You will harm no Narnian so long as I have any say about it."

"It is a fierce queen that protects her people," says the ambassador, inclining his head slightly in Susan's direction. "Our hot-tempered Prince, son of our beloved Tisroc, has spoken often of your beauty, Your Majesty. He laments to this day that he was unable to retain your tender affections, and speaks of your time together with great fondness. Were it only within my power, I should issue a pardon for this offense here on the spot, for this one is sure that this creature was only acting in defense of her queen, as should any leal subject. Alas, it is not within my power to do anything except that which His Gracious Excellency has instructed me to do: obtain justice for this unfortunate subject of Calormen, so that the Tisroc, whose reign is and was and ever shall be--" Here he pauses again for the customary response, "--might be lightened in his grief, for the welfare of his people is always foremost in his mind and heart."

"That is most unfortunate for you," says Edmund. "For Narnian law simply does not permit us to submit our subjects to the justice of another land for a crime committed within our borders. Even if we were permitted to do so, I cannot imagine a situation in which we would ever agree to such a thing when no crime has been committed. I deeply regret the loss of the Calormene man's life; however, the only one responsible for his death is ultimately the Crimson Queen, and she has met her end. That is as far as justice may extend."

"That is indeed unfortunate," the ambassador says.

"Unfortunate that you undertook such a journey for nothing," Edmund says. "As your journey was long, you must be quite exhausted. Rooms have been prepared for you. You will be shown to them so that you might refresh yourselves before the feast."

The ambassador bows. "Your generosity rivals that of the gods' blessings on Calormen," he says, "but it would suit this one well to spend the night aboard our own ship."

"Oh, we could not ask you to do such a thing," Peter says. "It would be quite inhospitable of us to ask you to sleep on board your ship when we have rooms to spare for your party, and I would not want you to depart early, thinking yourselves unwelcome."

"This one sees your logic," the ambassador allows. "I have heard of honored guests who visit by ship only to slink away in the middle of the night in the manner of thieves, without saying so much as a good-bye. This one would not dream of sullying your hospitality in such a manner, for even though the poets tell us that 'the departure of guests makes a wound that is easily healed in the mind of a judicious host', their departure is indeed a wound."

Peter gestures to the centaurs lining the hall, and several of them step out of their ranks, approaching the ambassador and his men. "My people will see you to your rooms," he says. "Do make yourselves at home. Your trunks will be brought up from your ship so that you might refresh yourselves before the feast."

"This one thanks you for your generosity, Your Majesties," says the ambassador. He bows, then backs up two steps before turning his back on the Narnians and exiting the hall with his men and the centaurs. When the doors are closed behind them, there is a long moment of silence, which Tyrion is the first to break.

"I don't know anything about Calormen," Tyrion says, "and I'm not sure why it took him so many words to say 'give us the mouse or else,' but that's essentially what he said."

"You're quite right," says Peter. "He very clearly has directions from the old Tisroc to bring Jewel to Calormen."

"He can't possibly think we'll actually turn Jewel over to him, does he?" Lucy says. "She did nothing wrong."

"She absolutely did not," says Brienne. "I can say for a certainty she saved my life along with Queen Susan and King Edmund's."

"Of course he doesn't think you're going to turn Jewel over to him," Jon says, with a tone of disgust. "He knew you would say no, and he knows you will continue to say no. Tonight he'll bring up the subject, just in passing, and tomorrow, he'll insist that he _has_ to take Jewel back with him--except he'll use a day's worth of words to say so--and when you say no, he'll go back to his master with reason to wage war on you. A farce of a reason, but a reason nonetheless."

"I refuse to give him Jewel, even if it starts a war," Susan says. "She did nothing we did not ask of her, and now we must defend her."

"Quite right," says Peter.

"Then I suppose we ought to prepare for war," Edmund says.

There is a moment of quiet while everyone mulls this over for some time. Finally, Jon says, "Where is Jewel? Is she here in the castle?"

"Yes," says Lucy. "But I've advised her to remain out of sight--and under guard--until the ambassador is gone away."

"Will you show me where?" 

"Jon, what are you thinking?" Sansa is all too aware of Jon's penchant for impulsive behavior, and she hopes this isn't one of those times.

"I'm not sure yet," Jon says. "But I want to talk to Jewel. Then I'll have a better idea of how this might proceed."

*****

There's a guard posted outside Jewel's quarters, which are far away from the wing of the castle where the Calormenes have been housed. The guard steps aside for Jon, Ghost, Susan, and Edmund, and they find Jewel inside, pacing about nervously. 

"Your Majesties, my lord," she says, tugging at her whiskers, "I'm so sorry for all of this trouble."

"Not a word of it," Susan says. "You should not be sorry in the least. And you also should not worry for yourself. The ambassador can only come at you through our dead bodies. Under no circumstances will we allow him to take you to Calormen, and no one is going to punish you in any way for killing that man to save me. You must have faith in that."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"But I'm hoping we can avoid outright war," Jon says. He's been mulling over something of a plan, but he's not entirely sure about it just yet. He's aware that the Talking Animals of Narnia are very sensitive where their honor is concerned, and Jewel perhaps moreso than others. She is a fearsome creature, despite her size. He does not want her to be offended by what he is about to propose. "Here is what I think. The ambassador has already as much as said plainly that if he does not get his hands on you, it will come to war. Sometime soon, he will say it again, and then he will leave with an excuse for his master to wage war on Narnia. We cannot allow it to come to that."

"No, we cannot," says Edmund.

"Here is what I propose. When he insists on taking you to Calormen, I will suggest that this be decided in single combat. I will be your champion."

"Jon, _no_ ," says Susan.

"We cannot allow that," says Edmund. "Single combat is an accepted way to decide such things, but it must be Peter or me to take up the sword. We cannot ask you to do this."

"It cannot be either of you," Jon says. "Surely the ambassador is aware of your skills and would decline to meet you in combat. He knows nothing of me." It is true that Jon knows nothing of the skill of the ambassador or any of his men, but he's well aware of his _own_ skill and would test his blade against anyone. Jon was unable to help in the attempt to rescue Edmund, meaning Jewel and her companions had to do what he could not; now the least he can do is help Jewel and keep Narnia from being dragged into another war. Jon turns to Jewel then, crouching down on her level to better meet her eyes. "I will not do it without your consent," he says. "But say the word, and I will act on your behalf. It isn't that I don't think your skills are up to the task, Jewel," he adds. "I've seen how fearsome you are in battle. But you saved Susan and Edmund from the Crimson Queen when I could do nothing but stand by and watch. Let me act on your behalf in return."


	21. Words are Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The poets are held in high esteem in Calormen," the ambassador agrees. "The gods have blessed us in many areas of artistic endeavor. A woman of such surpassing loveliness such as yourself would inspire many poems, paintings, and songs, all dedicated to your honor."
> 
> "How very kind of you to say," Sansa says sweetly. "If your poets are half so skilled in flattery as yourself, I think my head would swell to such a size… well, as I said, we are not much skilled in poetry in the North. I am sure I could not finish that description in a way as would do it justice. We do have a few wonderful stories, though. Would you care to hear a sampling? I promise you will not be disappointed."

Sansa changes her gown for the feast, donning the grey gown with the wolf design picked out in white silk and seed pearls along the neckline, and lets Daisis put up her hair. She's just tucked a couple of pearl-studded pins into her hair when a footman brings a message that Peter would like her to join him in his solar. 

Peter smiles when he sees her in the gown. "It suits you," he says.

"It was thoughtful of you," she replies, adjusting the fall of one sleeve. "I thought it would be suitable, especially if you wanted to announce our betrothal. We haven't agreed on all the details, I know," she allows, "but it might encourage the ambassador to think twice about what he says to the Tisroc when he returns." 

"Perhaps it will," Peter says. "But it seems your brother has a plan of his own. He intends to defend Jewel's honor in single combat, if Tarkhaan continues to press the issue."

This does not surprise Sansa in the least. "He's tried this before," she says. "Jon challenged my second husband to single combat in hopes of avoiding a pitched battle between our men and Ramsay's," she explains. "But Ramsay declined. He knew that Jon was a better swordsman than he by far. There was no need for him to risk his own neck when he had a larger army than we did."

"I should not allow it," Peter says. "It ought to be Edmund or me, fighting for one of our own."

"But surely the ambassador knows of your skill, or Edmund's," Sansa says. "He wouldn't risk going against you. He knows nothing of Jon or what he can do. He might be willing to risk it--or he might decide, if the aim of this nonsense is just to have a reason to wage war on Narnia and not truly to get Jewel in his custody, that there's little profit for him to face an unknown sword in single combat. But if he wins, it means he defeats the man who won the hand of the queen who spurned his prince, and he might think it will win him some favor with the prince. If he declines, he looks craven."

"I won't give him Jewel," Peter says. "I hope you don't think it means I don't value your brother's life as much as I do hers. But Jewel saved Susan and Edmund along with your Ser Brienne, and I won't reward her for her service by giving her to the enemy. Your brother has shown a generosity of spirit in stepping up to defend her."

"That's who he is," Sansa says. "I'm glad you didn't try to stop him; it would have been useless for you to try. He's very stubborn."

"It seems stubbornness is a Stark trait," Peter teases. "Which you both seem to have inherited in abundance."

When Peter smiles at her like that, it's easy to forget the way she waited for three weeks for Jon and his party to return from Westeros, the way it had felt to meet Aslan and how he had warned her that the nature of time at the border was meant to protect Narnia from harm. Sansa desperately wants this alliance, and the marriage between them, to work. If she can help Peter get rid of the threat of Calormen for good, she will feel a little less guilty for taking him away from his kingdom. _You're not taking him away,_ she reminds herself. _It was his idea to go._

"Stubbornness can be useful," she allows. "As I suspect you well know, as I don't feel it's a personality trait you are particularly deficient in yourself."

"It's one of my many flaws," Peter admits with a put-upon sigh, and takes her hand. "Will you sit beside me at the feast? If we're to make the announcement this evening, it will be a little easier if you are at my side."

"Of course."

"Good." Peter draws her close to kiss her softly; it's the first time he's made the move to kiss _her_ , and she welcomes it. He's taught her that she doesn't need to fear a man's touch, and as he's proved himself to be gentle and thoughtful when they are together, he's earned a measure of her trust. When he draws away, Sansa feels warm and flushed all over. "Now let us go down and make as good a time of it as we can with this Calormene cloud hanging over us."

Sansa's about to take his arm to go down with him when she has an idea. "Peter," she says, "have them seat the ambassador between Jon and me tonight. I'd like to talk to him." Of course, should Calormen call their bluff, the North won't be able to back up the words with actions, but it's no worse than if the North was not involved at all. "Well. Perhaps _like_ isn't the word."

"What will you say?" Peter asks.

"It depends on what he's about," Sansa answers. "If he seems craven, I'll give him the idea that Narnia has a strong ally in the north; if he seems bold, I'll try to goad him into facing Jon. Just have him be seated between us." 

*****

When Edmund said that there was to be a feast this evening, Jon had imagined somewhat like the gathering the night before the expedition north departed; a hearty meal, perhaps some impromptu dancing. But this evening's gathering is a true feast in every sense. The hall is blazing with light from braziers, candles, and lanterns, the tables draped in starched linens and strewn with bunches of summer flowers and greenery, and there are more guests than Jon has seen at any meal with the Narnians thus far, both of the human and non-human types. The only Narnian he knows who is missing from the gathering is Jewel; the Mouse is in her chambers, under the protection of two centaurs and Ghost.

Before they'd entered the hall, there had been a moment where Sansa had leaned in with an urgent whisper. "Whatever I say tonight, please go along," she'd said, before slipping away to greet the ambassador when he joined them in the hall. He'd wished he had time to ask her what she meant by that, but it was time to go through and there was no opportunity. 

He finds himself sitting at the high table, with Susan to his left and the ambassador to his right, and Sansa and Peter to the other side of the ambassador. It's a fortunate arrangement in some ways, as it gives Jon a chance to arrange an opportunity to draw the ambassador into agreeing to single combat; but it clearly makes Susan uncomfortable to be in proximity to the ambassador, and that he regrets. 

"You needn't speak to him if you would rather not," he assures her under his breath, so only she can hear, but she gives him a small smile and tells him not to worry.

The servants have filled everyone's goblets, and seeing so, Peter stands, his goblet in hand. As he does, a hush falls over the room. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the signing of an alliance between the Kingdom of Narnia and the Kingdom of the North, in the land of Westeros," Peter says. "This agreement provides Narnia with a new ally, a large and prosperous nation headed by the noble and ancient family of House Stark. It is our wish, and that of Sansa of House Stark, the Queen in the North, that this agreement be mutually beneficial for both our lands from this day until the end of time. As part of this alliance, my royal sister, Queen Susan, will wed Jon Snow, brother to Queen Sansa."

There is a gasp of surprise from the Narnians in the crowd, and then hearty applause. This, Jon hadn't quite been prepared for--a mention of the alliance, yes, but not _this_ particular announcement. And he certainly hadn't been prepared to have the attention of the entire hall turned his way. 

Then he glances at Susan, and her face is lit up in such a way that for a moment, Jon forgets about the ambassador and Jewel and the Calormene threat and… well, nearly everything else. It feels _right_ , and he doesn't feel the need to second-guess himself about whether it _ought_ to feel right or not. It simply _is._

This is where he belongs.

Peter waits for the applause and cheers to subside, and for a moment Jon thinks he's going to speak again, perhaps to speak of his own marriage to Sansa. He glances at Sansa, then back to the guests, and for a moment there's a flicker of uncertainty across his face before it vanishes, replaced by a smile. Then he raises his goblet. "To Queen Susan and Jon Snow," he says, gesturing for the guests to rise.

"Queen Susan and Jon Snow!" The cheer is raucous and merry, and the Narnians drain their goblets; there is a burst of happy chatter as servants make their way about the hall to refill them. The ambassador has risen with the rest of the hall, but as everyone sits again Jon notices that he did not actually drink to the toast. 

"Is something wrong with your wine, Ambassador Tarkhaan?" Jon asks, nodding toward the goblet.

"Not at all," the ambassador replies. "It is very good, though this one is used to a different sort of vintage. There is something in the air of this barbarian land that changes the fruit on the vine, you see. In Calormen, it is much warmer for more of the year, and the fruit has a longer season of growth. It produces a superior vintage."

"I see." Either the ambassador has no real palate for wine, or he's lying through his very white teeth; Jon thinks perhaps it is the latter. For himself, he's found Narnian wines to be far more than merely _very good,_ though in truth he couldn't tell one vintage from another. Servants begin bringing the first course, a savory seafood soup. After two bites, Jon thinks that by the end of the evening he will have to be rolled away from the table because he will have eaten himself into a stupor. 

"Let me extend my congratulations to you, Your Majesty," the ambassador continues, "on your betrothal to Her Majesty Queen Susan."

"I'm no 'Majesty,' nor anything else," Jon says. Years ago he would have been offended by having to explain, and now he could not care less. Perhaps it is better for the ambassador to think he _does_ care, though, and it is very easy to remember how it felt to be the bastard of Winterfell, excluded from the feast so as not to give offense to the royal guests, so his reply will have something of authenticity to it. "I'm Jon Snow, that is all. I have no lands or title."

"Ah," says the ambassador. "I thought, surely, that if Queen Susan--"

"He's my bastard brother," Sansa says sweetly, interrupting the ambassador. "I am Queen in the North, my brother Bran is King of the Six Kingdoms, and Jon is our half brother."

 _Bastard brother_ from Sansa stings in a way Jon didn't expect, an old wound he'd thought long healed and one he no longer cared about. There's something on the tip of his tongue to say back to her when he remembers what she said in the hall. _Whatever I say tonight, please go along._ Perhaps that is what she meant by it, and it's a great effort not to smile when he realizes that Sansa is aware of his plan concerning the ambassador and is contributing what she can to that end.

"This one understands." The ambassador takes a small sip of his wine. "But the 'North,' the 'Six Kingdoms,' these are lands unknown to civilized people. They are upon no maps of the known world."

"And Calormen is on no maps of the known world that I have ever seen," Sansa says, neatly avoiding the hint to describe exactly how to find the North. "It took some weeks of travel to reach Narnia."

"It seems a very long journey for a queen, Your Majesty. Your lord husband must think you very adventureous, to undertake such a journey."

"I am unmarried," says Sansa, with a faint sigh. "I rule the North in my own right, not through the authority of a husband, so I have no one to counsel me in such things."

"O queen, it is not possible that someone of your exquisite beauty could remain unwed!" Mirac Tarkhaan puts his hand to his chest, as if to convey shock. "Surely men would go to war simply for the privilege of knowing your smile. The poets tell us that the love of a beautiful woman is more precious than emeralds in the eyes of a fortunate man."

"Do they, now?" Sansa sips delicately at a spoonful of soup. "I am afraid that in the North, we do not have so many poets as you seem to have in Calormen. Those we do have are a bit less prolific than yours seem to be."

"The poets are held in high esteem in Calormen," the ambassador agrees. "The gods have blessed us in many areas of artistic endeavor. A woman of such surpassing loveliness such as yourself would inspire many poems, paintings, and songs, all dedicated to your honor."

"How very kind of you to say," Sansa says sweetly. "If your poets are half so skilled in flattery as yourself, I think my head would swell to such a size… well, as I said, we are not much skilled in poetry in the North. I am sure I could not finish that description in a way as would do it justice. We do have a few wonderful stories, though. Would you care to hear a sampling? I promise you will not be disappointed."

"This one's ears would be honored by a story from your land, O queen," says the ambassador. 

The servants bring the next course as Sansa tells the ambassador the story of Florian and Jonquil. It's a story Jon's heard half a hundred times as a child, so he only half-listens to it. He glances past Sansa to see if Peter is listening; the Narnian king seems deep in conversation with Lucy, seated to his other side. Perhaps that is for the best. Jon knows very little about the ways of women, and even less of it where Sansa is concerned, but as she tells the tale of Florian and Jonquil, Jon gets the sense that she is _flirting_ with the ambassador.

 _Whatever I say tonight, please go along._ He prays to the gods Sansa knows what the hells she's doing, and hopes she at least gave her future husband some warning. 

Sansa chatters with the ambassador all through dinner and into the second of three desserts; when she finishes the story of Florian and Jonquil she talks about Jaehaerys and Alysanne Targaryen, with some emphasis on their dragons. By the third dessert she's describing what Jon realizes is the Battle of the Blackwater. He wonders why she's chosen these particular stories. Florian and Jonquil, Jaehaerys and Alysanne--those are easy enough, as they're the romantic sorts of stories that are easy to tell and don't require any real knowledge of Westerosi history to be entertaining. But the Blackwater he wonders at.

Whatever her reasoning, the ambassador seems to be hanging on to Sansa's every word. His eyes light up at the description of the chain across the harbor and the wildfire launched at the ships on the water. Jon is quite certain Sansa only heard about this second hand and did not see it herself, but she describes it as vividly as if she saw it with her own eyes.

After the third dessert course (an elaborate confection of chocolate, something Jon has grown to love but has no taste for tonight), Edmund calls for dancing, and Peter gets up from the table. Jon is surprised to see it's Susan that Peter asks to dance, not Sansa, but he can only wonder at it for a moment before Lucy appears in Susan's place. 

"I know it isn't proper for a lady to ask a man to dance, but as you're to be my brother-by-law--and I know you'll never ask me first--then I think we get to make that exception," she says merrily. "Do come and have a turn with me."

It isn't something Jon cares for at all, but he's hardly going to say no to Lucy and embarrass her, so he takes her hand and leads her onto the floor with the others. He feels a bit less self conscious when he realizes Lucy is a good enough dancer that he doesn't actually have to lead; it also helps that also dancing are a pair of Bears, six tree nymphs, a dozen Fauns, and an assortment of Squirrels and Mice, in addition to Susan and Peter. How bad can he be in comparison to the Bears, who are stepping on each other's toes but seeming not to notice?

"I think you don't like dancing very much," Lucy says after they've got themselves sorted.

"Is it that obvious?" 

"A little. But don't worry, you'll learn." Her face grows serious for a moment, then she smiles again, as if remembering she ought to. "I wanted to get you away from the ambassador to tell you that Peter and Sansa have somewhat of a plan; I mean to say, I think it's mostly your sister's plan, but Peter told me of it over dinner. There wasn't time to tell everyone before the feast."

"Sansa said something of it, just before we came in," he says. "I wondered what she was about."

Lucy nods, and smiles as if he's said something particularly witty. "She knows you want to defend Jewel in single combat. I think she has a mind to provoke him a bit, to make it more likely he'll accept your challenge when you make it."

That's a dangerous game. Jon wishes they'd had a chance to speak of it before all of this began, but it's late for it now. "What does she mean to do?" 

"Peter says that if he seems craven, she'll threaten him with the power of the North, and if he seems bold, she'll make him feel he has something to gain by combat with you."

That explains the _bastard brother_ bit, then. And perhaps the stories. "Whatever I can do to help Narnia avoid a war with Calormen, I'll do," Jon says.

"I know," Lucy says. "And we all love you for it. That, and the fact that you're making Susan incredibly happy. I'm very sorry I was so against you and the free folk in the beginning. I didn't understand them, or you, at all."

"Don't apologize," Jon says. "You were concerned for your subjects, as any queen should be. The free folk didn't know any better, and they were sorry for it when they learned the truth, but that doesn't give them their lives back." And Jon is sorrier for it than any of them can know, because he _knows_ what it means to be dead. There's nothing after life. "You wanted justice. That's your duty."

The music comes to an end, and another tune picks up immediately; Edmund comes to claim his younger sister for a dance and Jon seeks out Susan for the same reason. Not that he's particularly keen to dance, but because it gives them a reason to speak out of the ambassador's hearing. "Peter's told me the plan," she says, and though she's wearing the expected smile of someone newly betrothed, he can see the worry in her eyes. "Jon, please be careful. You can never know what these people are actually thinking. Rabadash was a fool, but his father is cold and calculating. He would never choose an ambassador that was anything different than he is. He fooled me into thinking Rabadash would be the man of my dreams when I _should have been able to see him with my own eyes_ , and if Sansa is trying to manipulate him into doing something foolish, there's a great chance he's manipulating her in return."

Jon has heard something very similar from Sansa herself, when she tried to warn him about Ramsay Bolton. Sansa warned him Ramsay would do _something_ , though she hadn't known how to say exactly what; and Susan's words are so similar that it gives Jon a chill. He hadn't listened to Sansa then, and it cost them dearly. It nearly cost them everything. 

Which of them should he heed now?

"I won't let anything happen to you," he says, "or to Jewel, or to Narnia. Neither will your brothers."

"But I know how these people _are_. Especially him." Her smile falters a little then, as do her steps, and Jon catches her before she can stumble. "You and Sansa don't know him like I do."

"And he doesn't know _us_. He knows you and Lucy and your brothers." If he thinks Jon is merely Sansa's unimportant bastard brother, no one of consequence…then perhaps he will underestimate Jon when the challenge comes. "He would never accept a challenge from Edmund or Peter."

Susan has no argument for that, and Jon does not know how to reassure her that he knows what he's doing, so they finish the dance in silence. 

*****

There is something about Mirac Tarkhaan that makes Sansa's skin crawl.

She has spent the entire feast talking to him, feeding him stories of romance (Florian and Jonquil, Jaehaerys and Alysanne) and war (first the Battle of the Blackwater, and then, later, after Jon went to dance, the battle to retake Winterfell from the Boltons), wishing to make Westeros in general seem like the sort of place that would appeal to the ambassador and the Tisroc, filled with exotic things like wildfire and dragons and the like that aren't, to her knowledge, available in either Narnia or Calormen. She carefully makes no mention of the fact that what wildfire there was only existed in King's Landing, and that the only known remaining dragon has flown off to parts unknown and hasn't been seen or heard from since.

Sansa had saved the tale of the latter battle for when Jon was away on purpose. She'd noticed Jon's flinch when she'd said he was her _bastard brother_ and she'd hated herself a little for saying it, but she hopes Jon will forgive her later, when she can explain; she hopes that by making it seem as though Jon is of little consequence, the ambassador might be tempted to win her favor and fall neatly into the trap Jon plans to lay for him. Men do stupid things for women, after all. And so when she'd described the latter battle, she had said very little about Jon's part in it. She'd not wanted to do that in Jon's hearing.

Sansa would have felt much better about this if she'd had a chance to discuss it with Jon before the feast. 

The ambassador listens attentively to her stories. By the third dessert (and the fourth wine) he has propped his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, watching her with a rapt attention that Sansa suspects has as much to do with the neckline of her gown as it does with the stories she tells. Then he asks her to dance, and though he is clearly a skilled dancer, he is also rather free with his hands, and it is all Sansa can do to plaster a smile to her face instead of slapping his. 

Instead of slapping him, she asks him questions. Most men love to talk about themselves and their accomplishments, and Mirac Tarkhaan is no exception. So she lets him talk at length about Calormen, the Tisroc (this is accompanied by endless strings of _may-he-live-forever_ s), and the gifts the Tisroc has given him to show his favor. It is difficult for Sansa to feign interest in any of it, but she forces herself to do so, smiling and batting her eyes in a way that feels utterly vapid but which the ambassador seems to respond to very well.

"I can see why the Tisroc has made you his envoy," Sansa says, and that, at least, is truthful. 

"He has been most generous with this one," says Tarkhaan. "It is the greatest honor to serve a ruler so wise and compassionate, may he live forever."

"Yes, I'm sure it is." Does the man truly believe every noxious word that drips from his lips, or is he merely an extremely skilled liar? 

"This one does most deeply regret that I failed him and his noble son and heir in the manner of his betrothal." The ambassador sighs a bit, shaking his head, and speaks more quietly as he continues. "I had thought I had found a suitable bride for the heir to such an ancient and honorable house. When one is in the service of someone so just and true, it is natural to think that others will be equally just and true, and the deepest disappointment when they are not."

Sansa feigns ignorance of what happened between Susan and the Calormene prince. "Goodness. Whatever happened?" 

"The poets tell us that the hospitality of one's host is more precious than pearls," says the ambassador. "To speak ill of one's host beneath the host's roof would be the height of impropriety."

"Of course," says Sansa. "I hope my question didn't give offense."

"And yet," the ambassador continues, "this one thinks it would be a grave injustice if… well. Surely a queen of such beauty and wisdom as yourself would seek out the most advantageous arrangement for your people."

"What is it your poets say? 'Every subject of mine, O my people, is as precious to me as the each of the jewels in my treasure-house?' Did I remember it correctly?"

The ambassador smiles, and his twisted red beard quivers a bit as he nods in approval. Sansa catches a whiff of whatever scented oil he has used to dress it; it is not entirely unpleasant, but somewhat excessive. "Your Majesty has a most prodigious memory," he says.

"The welfare of my people is my highest priority," Sansa says, perhaps the second thing she's said since the feast began that is entirely truthful. She suspects that what she thinks that looks like and what the _ambassador_ thinks that might look like are quite different, however. "I must do what I can to ensure their well-being."

"Yes, of course. It gives this one great distress to say that Your Majesty may not find that the agreement you have made with our esteemed hosts to be as beneficial to the well-being of your people as you might hope."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." The music comes to an end, and Sansa smiles as sweetly as she can manage. "Goodness, but it is warm in the hall. I think I may step outside for a bit for some fresh air. Please pardon me, Ambassador."

The ambassador bows and Sansa makes her way to the wide balcony just outside the hall, overlooking the ocean. If her instincts are correct, he'll follow her outside before long. It's too risky to try to speak to Jon or Peter in the meantime, so as she crosses the hall she takes a path that intercepts a passing servant bearing a tray with cups of wine, a path that puts her in a position to catch Peter's eye for a moment and give him the slightest of nods before she heads outside with her cup. Though it's evening now, and too dark to see the ocean below, the breeze is refreshing, and Sansa is glad for it. She takes a seat on a low bench by the railing and tips most of her cup of wine into a nearby potted plant to make it appear she's drunk more than she truly has.

Just as she expected, Tarkhaan joins her a few moments later. "It is much more pleasant out here," he says as he sits beside her on the bench. "Civilized conversation is difficult, this one finds, when there is such a gathering."

"It was so noisy inside," Sansa agrees. She is surprised he has not said that the poets say that civilized conversation is more precious than amethysts, or some other jewel he hasn't yet mentioned. "So noisy that I am not sure I heard you clearly. I thought you may have said that the arrangement I've made might not be as beneficial as I would like?"

The ambassador nods a little. "I have heard of agreements that were made and not honored," he says, "betrothals arranged and then broken with no explanation, by the false jade that slinks away in the dead of night in the manner of a common thief, as opposed to the behavior of persons with discernment. It would be a grievous disappointment, and the deepest injustice, should Your Majesty's agreement come to a similar end."

"Oh, I see." She gives her mostly-empty cup as forlorn a look as she can manage. "It's so difficult," she says softly, "ruling alone. One never knows who to trust. But it's all been arranged, now. I suppose I shall have to make the best of it as I can. It was so kind of you to think to warn me, Ambassador." Sansa touches his sleeve lightly, suppressing a shudder. "I do appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"Your Majesty is most kind, the fairest of foreign flowers." The compliment might sound somewhat more genuine if it were not directed to her chest, Sansa thinks. "This one bids you not distress yourself overmuch. The poets tell us that all things that are done, save for those things done by the wise and mighty Tisroc himself, whose reign is and was and ever shall be, can always be _un_ done."

Sansa draws her hand away to cradle her mostly-empty cup again; his words have given her a chill that she fears will make her hands tremble if she does not have something to steady them. "That does make me feel somewhat better. But now I must retire. It has been quite the day, and you've given me much to consider. Good night, my lord."

"Good night, Your Majesty."

When she reaches her chambers, she can finally drop her mask of politeness, and she can hardly stop shaking with fear. "Your Majesty!" says her maid, when she's closed the door behind her. "Are you ill?"

"No, Daisis," Sansa says. "I've only had--I'm afraid I've had too much to drink at the feast," she lies. "I'll feel better once I lie down. But I must ask you for a favor." She lowers her voice to a whisper; she does not think it likely that the Calormene ambassador has placed spies in Cair Paravel, but if she is wrong about that… "You must take a message to my brother."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Directly to him, do you understand? Give it to no one but him. Put it in his own hand."

The tree-spirit nods, a few petals falling from her hair. "I understand."

But what can she write? Any words she puts to paper could be intercepted and read, she realizes, as she takes up a quill and dips it in the ink-pot. 

Any words except three, that is. Three words that will mean nothing to someone not of Westeros, three words that Jon will understand immediately.

Sansa dips her quill in the ink again and writes: _Winter is coming_.


	22. The Duel, and What Happened After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you say, my lord? Let's end this like civilized men. If you win, you get the Mouse and no further resistance or retribution from Narnia. If I win…" He shrugs as if he finds the prospect highly unlikely. "I'm sure your Tisroc would rather not lose more of his 'precious subjects' in a war with Narnia, since he holds them so dear."

When Tyrion goes down to break his fast with the Narnian kings and Jon Snow in the small hall, he notes the absence of the Calormene ambassador at the table. "Has your guest departed so early, Your Graces?" he asks the Narnians, climbing into a chair beside Jon. 

"No such luck," Edmund says. "He's requested another audience this morning."

Tyrion helps himself to coffee. It's a drink he'll sorely miss once he's back in Westeros. Narnia imports coffee from Calormen, so if things go south with the ambassador, the Narnians might be missing it soon as well. "I can't imagine what he could possibly want."

Peter scowls. "The same thing he's wanted all along," he says, missing Tyrion's sarcasm. He seems in an ill mood this morning; Tyrion wonders if it has somewhat to do with the ambassador's attentions to Sansa throughout the feast. Surely he noticed it. Tyrion was half the table away and it was obvious to _him_ , but Tyrion also knows Sansa well enough to know that the Sansa who batted her eyes at the ambassador is the Sansa who said things like _I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey_ , and not the _real_ Sansa. He hopes Peter has the sense to realize that as well.

If Sansa is flirting with the Calormene ambassador, it can only be for the benefit of Narnia and the alliance she wants with them. Tyrion knows nothing of her plan other than her intent to marry the Narnian High King, but even he can see that.

"He can want it all he wants, but he won't get it," says Jon. "Not the thing he says he wants, nor the thing he _truly_ wants."

"How do you plan to stop him?" Tyrion asks.

"You'll see." Jon puts down his coffee cup and pushes his mostly-uneaten breakfast away. He has little to say after that, but Tyrion's curiosity is roused, so when Edmund asks Tyrion to join them for the ambassador's audience, Tyrion can hardly say no. 

The audience is held in the throne room, as the day before, with the Narnians on their thrones and the seated Westerosi nearby. There are others in attendance as well, including Lord Peridan and a handful of other Narnian courtiers, both human and Animal, standing or seated further away from the thrones. 

Sansa is the last to arrive.

"Where have you been?" Tyrion asks.

"I had a late morning," Sansa says, folding her hands in her lap as she sits. She's wearing grey silk this morning, her hair loose on her shoulders in the northern style, with a silver direwolf pendant on a delicate silver chain about her neck. Tyrion cannot remember seeing this particular pendant before. When the ambassador and his entourage enter, Sansa smiles, and it's such a smile that Tyrion can't help but wonder what _exactly_ is happening. 

Was he wrong in his previous assessment of the situation? 

"Your Majesties." The ambassador is solemn, his florid courtesies of the previous day abandoned. "This one thanks you for your hospitality. But this one is also compelled by the wish of His Gracious Excellency to seek justice for the loss of his precious subject, for each one is more dear to him than all the jewels in his treasure-house; as a consequence, I must again request that Jewel the Mouse be brought forward to face the Tisroc's judgement."

Peter's response is swift and firm. "We will not give her to you." 

"That is unfortunate."

"Yes, it is quite unfortunate for you."

"His Gracious Excellency will not be pleased to hear that Your Majesty values the life of one animal over that of your entire kingdom," the ambassador says. 

"Is that a threat?"

"If Your Majesty hears it as such," the ambassador says, as if it is of no consequence to him. "I will convey your words to His Gracious Excellency, may-he-live-forever."

"Go and tell your master--"

"Your Grace." Jon stands abruptly. "This man has as good as said if you don't give him the mouse, Calormen will attack you. There's no need for this to come to war. Let me prove Jewel's innocence in single combat. Me against the ambassador."

"Jon, what are you _doing_?" cries Susan, her face deathly pale. "You can't be serious."

Jon ignores her, addressing the ambassador. "What do you say, my lord? Let's end this like civilized men. If you win, you get the Mouse and no further resistance or retribution from Narnia. If I win…" He shrugs as if he finds the prospect highly unlikely. "I'm sure your Tisroc would rather not lose more of his 'precious subjects' in a war with Narnia, since he holds them so dear."

"I'm not sure we can permit this," Edmund says gravely. "The alliance with the North rests on your marriage to our sister. If you were to lose…" 

"Jon, don't be a fool," Sansa says, a touch of condescension cooling her tone. "Please sit, and let the Narnians sort this out themselves."

"Do you have any faith in me at all?" Jon looks at Sansa, his expression cold. When Sansa looks down at her folded hands instead of replying, he turns back to Peter. "Your Grace. Let me defend Jewel's honor with my own."

Peter considers this for a long moment, then gives a reluctant sigh. "My lord Ambassador, the challenge has been freely given. Do you accept this challenge and agree to this duel according to Narnian custom?"

The ambassador glances at Sansa, who gives him the smallest of nods and smiles, so slight that Tyrion thinks he would miss it if he weren't seated right next to her. Tyrion can practically see the wheels turning in the man's mind, considering his options.

"I accept, Your Majesty," Mirac Tarkhaan says, with a shallow bow at the waist. 

It's only then, when the man looks over at Sansa with a certain gleam into his eye, that Tyrion realizes the trap into which the Calormene ambassador has neatly fallen, and it takes everything Tyrion has in him not to give anything away in his expression.

"Very well," Peter says. "This will be decided at two hours past noon. Edmund, of your courtesy, see that the field is prepared and that the combatants have all that they require. My lord ambassador, select three of your men to serve as marshals of the lists, and we shall do the same. We shall reconvene on the tourney field."

The Narnian queens are the first to leave the hall, and then the rest of the group disperses. "Lord Tyrion," Edmund says, before Tyrion has got very far. "A word, with you and Ser Brienne?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"I would like to ask Ser Brienne to serve as one of the marshals of the lists," Edmund says. 

"What is a marshal of the lists?" Tyrion asks.

"Each side in a single combat has three witnesses, to ensure that all is conducted fairly," Edmund explains. "As Jon Snow is fighting on behalf of a Narnian, I shall be one, and it has always been the right of the Bears to supply one of the marshals for single combat in Narnia. Someone from Westeros as the third marshal would be appropriate, instead of another Narnian, since Jon is from Westeros."

"Then you should ask her," Tyrion says. Clearly, Brienne would be better at this task than say, Sansa, or Tyrion himself.

"Lord Tyrion," Brienne says politely, "I believe King Edmund is asking you for permission to ask me to serve in this capacity, as I'm sworn to the service of King Bran, and you are His Grace's representative in his absence."

"Ah. Yes, of course." It makes sense enough. "Ser Brienne may be the third marshal of the lists, if you think it's appropriate."

"Thank you, my lord," says Edmund. "Ser Brienne, as the third marshal, will you see that Jon Snow is supplied with whatever is needful? Lord Peridan will show you to the armory. I must see to the preparation of the field."

Having nothing better to do, Tyrion invites himself along for the trip down to Cair Paravel's armory. The armory is away from the main keep, toward the outer walls of the castle, and located near a forge staffed entirely by Badgers. The castle armorer is also a Badger, a sturdy fellow nearly of a height with Tyrion. 

"Milord," the Badger says, with a deferential bow to Jon. "It's good to see you again."

"I'm no lord," Jon says. "And you shouldn't bow to me."

"Any Man who stands up for one of us Animals as you're standing up for Jewel, well, that's a Man worthy of a lordship and more, that's what," says the Badger. He nods to the sword at Jon's hip. "I remember that sword, milord. It's better than anything I have to offer you. But you're going to need a bit of mail, I think, and hmm… let's see…."

*****

In the end, Jon leaves the armory with not much more than that with which he entered: some light ringmail, a helm of equal weight, and a small shield, all of which he's prepared to discard depending upon how Tarkhaan equips himself. He's confident enough in his own abilities that he doesn't feel the need to trust in unfamiliar equipment, but Sansa's written warning, _winter is coming_ , was a reminder that he has a foot on rotten ice here, and he can't afford to be _too_ confident in himself.

It had been easy to lure the ambassador into the trap Jon and Sansa had set for him. _Too_ easy, Jon thinks. When he made the challenge, he'd expected some prevarication or obfuscation on the ambassador's part, some delay or distraction to keep him from immediately accepting. Jon thought he'd have to work _harder_ to get the man to do what he wanted him to do; the ease with which he'd agreed makes Jon suspicious. 

There's nothing to do about it now, though, except to keep his wits about him--and be grateful for the rules of Narnian single combat that require witnesses for each side. Brienne of Tarth is one of the most honorable people Jon knows, and he's come to realize that Edmund Pevensie is as well; while he knows nothing of the Bear who has been assigned to be one of the marshals of the lists (apparently this is Narnian tradition), he can't help but think it a good omen, as if the Old Bear himself were looking out for Jon.

A broad square has been staked out on the flat, level field north of the castle. Edmund and one of the ambassador's men are inspecting the ground of the square. To the east and west of it, pavilions of colored silk have been erected. Susan and Lucy are seated beneath the easternmost pavilion, and he crosses the field to join them, Brienne and Tyrion along with him.

"Do you have everything you need?" Susan asks, taking his hand. 

"Aye."

"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

"Aye."

"I thought you might say that." 

"Don't mistake her worry for a lack of confidence in you, Jon," Lucy says warmly. "She really is a brick, but any sort of fighting makes my sister terribly nervous. She's the designated worrier of the four of us. You mustn't take it personally."

"Thanks ever so much, Lu," says Susan, and Jon can't help but smile at her tone of mild annoyance. 

"I can't help but think a certain degree of caution is prudent," Tyrion agrees. "But if it will ease your mind, Your Grace, I have it on good authority that Jon Snow is one of the best swordsmen Westeros has ever seen. As somewhat of a diplomat myself, I can say that one does not usually become a diplomat by virtue of being a skilled warrior. A _good_ warrior could do the job, perhaps, but no ruler with a grain of sense would send a warrior to do battle with words."

"Words are certainly your strength, Lord Tyrion," Susan says, "since you've eased my mind considerably just now. But my sister is right that I'm the one who does all the worrying for the four of us, and she's also right that Jon mustn't take it personally." She squeezes his hand and adds softly, "If I didn't love you, I wouldn't be worried at all."

It surprises Jon that she would say something so personal within earshot of the others, and his instinct is to be embarrassed about it. But Lucy doesn't react to what Susan has said, any more than she would have reacted if Susan had remarked that the sky is blue and the grass green, nor do Tyrion or Brienne, and Jon decides to take strength from her words instead of being embarrassed about them. "Aye," he says. "I suppose you wouldn't worry, if you didn't care." It's different to know that while she of course cares about the fate of Jewel and the chance of avoiding war with Calormen, she also cares about _him_ \--and he dares think perhaps she cares about _him_ more than the rest of it. 

It's a strange feeling, the idea that someone puts _him_ first in their thoughts.

"I don't know what the custom is in the North," Susan says, "but in Narnia, if a man is to go to battle, it's good fortune for a lady to give him her favor to wear as a token of her support." She pulls a blue silk ribbon from a pocket in her skirt. Jon thinks he has seen it before in her hair, though he's not sure. She wears blue often. 

"It might be a custom in Westeros, too," Jon says. "I don't know. I never paid any attention to that sort of thing." Growing up a bastard, he never had any expectation that he would have a lady's attention; it seems the kind of thing Sansa would know about, not him. Sansa is nowhere to be seen, though. 

"Well." Susan ties the ribbon to his sleeve, well out of the way, and gives it a good tug to ensure it stays there. "You can ask Sansa about it later. She's a proper lady, I'm sure she'd know the rules about these things." 

"Have you ever given a man your favor before?" Jon badly wants the answer to that question to be _no_.

"No," she says. "Not exactly. There was a tournament here, when Rabadash came to court me, and I meant to give him my favor to wear in it, but a gust of wind blew it away and I hadn't anything else suitable to give him."

"Perhaps it was a sign," Jon says.

"Yes. Though I was too foolish to see it at the time." She rests her hand against his arm, her touch light. "Please be careful, Jon."

"I will." A flash of white catches his eye, then, and Jon looks up to see Ghost trotting down the long, grassy slope from the castle with Jewel, accompanied by a pair of Centaurs bristling with steel. 

"My lord," Jewel says, when she joins them in the pavilion. "I shouldn't let you do this, but as Their Majesties have agreed to it, I don't see a way to stop you."

"Nor should you, even if you could," says Jon. "You defended Queen Susan and King Edmund and Ser Brienne, and your actions saved their lives when I could only stand by and wait. I'll defend you now."

"Thank you, my lord," she says, and offers him her paw; Jon shakes it solemnly, finding her grip surprisingly strong for one so small. Whatever doubts he had about the ease of getting the Calormene ambassador to agree to this duel seem unimportant, now. He has only to look at Jewel's soft, trusting eyes to know that he is doing the right thing--the _honorable_ thing, even if it took some trickery to get to it.

He wants to think that his father would approve.

*****

Sansa waits until she is certain that Peter has gone down to the field before leaving the castle herself. Her stomach clenches into a knot when she thinks on what she must do now, so she tries not to think of it.

"Stay with me," she instructs her escort, Stark guardsmen in boiled leather. "no matter what I do, even if it doesn't make sense. I promise I will explain myself when this is all over."

"Of course, Your Grace."

A large crowd of Narnians has gathered around the field, Sansa can see even from the crest of the slope. There are a few humans, but the crowd is largely centaurs, griffins, and fauns, and Animals of all kinds--Bears, Elephants, Horses, Dogs, Badgers, and others too numerous to name. When she reaches the tourney field, she veers to the left, heading for the ambassador's pavilion instead of the one where the Narnians, Tyrion, and Brienne are gathering with Jon. Mirac Tarkhaan looks up when she enters the pavilion. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he says, as a servant makes some adjustments to the light armor he wears. 

"Ambassador." She takes in the pavilion and its furnishings at a glance; there's a low couch and a table before it with the remains of what seems to have been a fine meal, as well as a flagon of wine. "Do you have everything you need?"

"The barbarians have been most generous to this one," he says. "I want for nothing."

"That's good to hear." Sansa glances across the field to where Jon and the Narnians are gathered, and takes a steadying breath. It helps only a little. "Truly, ambassador, it would take an incredibly brave man to face my brother in single combat," she says, in the sweetest voice she can manage, although her heart is pounding so that she feels she is like to choke on it. "He challenged my husband to single combat once, and my husband refused, saying he had heard that Jon was the greatest swordsman who ever walked."

"Your husband?" The ambassador's voice sharpens, and he waves away the servant attending him, his face settling into an unpleasant expression. "This one heard you say that you were unmarried."

"Oh, I am quite unmarried," she says. "Please pardon me. I should have been more clear--my _late_ husband refused to meet Jon in single combat. Our wedding was not lawful, and my late husband made a claim to our ancestral home to which he was not entitled. You see, Jon's challenge was meant to avoid war. Since Ramsay refused, it came to war, and in the end it was Jon and Ramsay anyway. Jon nearly killed the man. Just nearly, though for a moment I thought Jon might truly kill him. Then I fed him to his dogs."

The ambassador makes a sound of indignation and anger and advances on her, but he stops when Sansa's guards move behind her, their hands on the hilts of their swords. "You false, black-hearted daughter of a dog," he spits, his face darkening with anger, at the realization he's been played false. "This is treachery, this is madness, this is--"

"No more treachery than it is to conspire against your host under his own roof," Sansa says, with a measure of coolness despite her fear. "The North will always be a true ally to Narnia, and Narnia to the North. Remember that well, my lord, for the _North_ remembers." She wants nothing more than to run out of his pavilion as fast as she possibly can, but she forces herself to walk as a queen, crossing the field at a leisurely pace with her head held high. 

When she reaches the Narnians' pavilion, her knees are weak and her heart is pounding so fiercely she thinks she might faint. "Oh, I never want to do that again," she says, to everyone and no one in particular.

"It's done now," Peter says, and takes her arm. He's strong and sure, and that helps steady her considerably. "Is he angry?"

"Absolutely furious," she says, "but I made sure he knew, Jon, that I have every confidence in your abilities. And I _do_. You must know I do. But I had to let him think less of you, at first, so he'd agree to fight you. If he knew just how good you are he'd never be stupid enough to agree. I'm sorry I called you a bastard, last night at the feast," she adds softly. "Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," says Jon, and draws her close for a moment to kiss her brow. He's only done this once before, and just as it had then, it surprises her just how gentle he is. Not for the first time, she wishes she hadn't been so awful to him for so much of their lives. "I thought that was what you were about. It stung, but it made it easier to play my part." 

"Still. I'm sorry for it." When he draws away, she sees the blue silk ribbon tied to his sleeve, and smiles. "Your lady's favor?"

Jon turns fainly pink beneath his beard. "Aye," he says gruffly. "It's a Narnian custom."

"Then you don't need my favor," she says. "Or I would give it to you. But you _do_ have my love. Father would be proud of you, you know," she adds softly. "For defending Jewel. It's something he would have done. Or Robb. You're as much a Stark as either of them."

Perhaps that was too much, Sansa thinks then, as Jon looks almost misty-eyed. It won't do for him to get sentimental here, as he ought to keep his wits about him; the ambassador will be even more dangerous for having his anger roused. But she wants Jon to know that she's proud of him, and she truly does think her father would be proud of him as well.

Edmund declares that the appointed hour has arrived, then, and summons the combatants to the square. "Ghost, stay," Jon says, and the wolf sits beside Jewel, his red eyes fixed on Jon as he walks out onto the field. 

Brienne and Edmund position themselves at the near corners of the square, and a great brown Bear at the north side, as marshals of the lists; three Calormenes take the far corners and the south side. No one else is allowed near the square, to prevent interference. From this distance Sansa cannot hear what is said, but she can see that Jon and the ambassador come to the center to shake hands before moving apart again, drawing their swords. 

And then it begins.

"O-o-oh," says Susan, under her breath. At the first ring of steel on steel she looks away, her face taking on a greenish tinge, as though she might be sick.

Sansa takes Susan's hand, which Susan clutches in a vice grip. "Try not to worry," she says quietly, in an attempt to be reassuring. "Jon is very, _very_ good."

"I can see that," Peter says approvingly. "I say, he's being clever about it, letting Tarkhaan come after him. The man's furious; looks like Jon's letting him wear himself out. And it was smart not to weight himself down with a great amount of armor. I've never seen a man move so fast."

The ambassador has let his anger get the better of him, charging at Jon again and again with furious blows that Jon deflects as easy as flicking away an insect. The Narnians loudly express their approval, cheering Jon on with shouts and a great deal of stamping of hooves and braying and barking and swishing of tails and flapping of feathers. There's a low, rumbling growl from Ghost, and Sansa looks over to see that Jewel's climbed onto his back as to better see the battle, while Ghost's fur is bristled and his ear is pricked, his teeth pulled back from his lips in a snarl. Had Jon not ordered him to stay, she has no doubt he would have launched himself at Tarkhaan as soon as the battle began and ripped out his throat.

Anger fueled Tarkhaan's initial attacks, but as the sun creeps across the sky it's obvious that anger is a finite fuel, a fuel that can only last a little while before it burns itself out. The pace of the ambassador's attacks begins to lag a little. Jon matches his attacks with consistent parries, batting the ambassador's blade away every time, and when the ambassador eventually stumbles a little with fatigue, Jon surges forward, knocking Tarkhaan's sword from his grip and sweeping his legs from under him, sending him crashing to the ground, as a ferocious shout goes from from the Narnian crowd. "Get him! Get him! Make an end of it!" and "Snow! Snow! Snow!" The roar is deafening. Jon is atop him in the blink of an eye, his sword pressed to the man's throat, and though Sansa can't hear him she knows he's asking if he will yield. Tarkhaan spits at Jon, screeching in rage, and Jon raises his fist to bring it down against the man's face.

Then a soft and terrible voice says, "That will do."

"It's _Aslan_ ," says Susan, and she and Peter and Lucy immediately go down on one knee. Sansa has little other choice but to do the same; she looks up to see Jon move off Tarkhaan and take a knee as well, as Aslan, his fur shimmering golden in the afternoon sunlight, pads slowly onto the tourney field. Sansa thinks Aslan looks even larger, even more imposing now than he did when she saw him alone in the moonlight. All the Narnians gasp in surprise, and there is a slow ripple through the crowd as they all go down on one knee or hoof or wing.

The ambassador scrabbles backward in the grass for a moment, his mouth agape in surprise. Then he scrambles for his sword and grasping it, leaps to his feet to charge at Jon, who has eyes for no one else but Aslan.

There's a warning shout in Sansa's throat, but it's stuck there as if her mouth is full of sand, and she can do nothing but watch as the ambassador charges at Jon. He screams in fury, bringing his sword down in a two-handed strike, when suddenly his blade turns to a handful of peacock feathers, and the abrupt change in weight makes him lose his balance and he goes sprawling to the ground on his belly, just inches from where Jon kneels.

"Say one word, and you will meet the same fate as your prince," Aslan says. Then he nods to the nearest centaurs. "Take him."

Two centaurs step forward and take the ambassador by the arms, dragging him from the square to kneel outside of it. The ambassador opens his mouth to protest, then seems to think better of it, closing his mouth and simmering instead in quiet fury. At the ambassador's pavilion, there is a soft murmur of confusion amongst his men; after a moment, they all take a knee, wisely choosing to say nothing else.

Then Aslan turns to Jon.

*****

"Jon Snow," says Aslan, in a voice that sounds for all the world like Ned Stark's, but somehow _more_. 

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Rise and come forward."

Jon looks up, uncertain of what he ought to do. Of course Aslan has just said _rise and come forward_ , but Jon is not at all sure what Aslan intends to do and with the battle having come to such an abrupt and unexpected end, the heat of it is still on him, addling his wits a bit. He glances across the field at Susan, and she nods encouragingly. Jon stands, sheathing Longclaw, and approaches Aslan as respectfully as he knows how.

"You have served Narnia well." Aslan says, "in your defense of Jewel the Mouse, and in your efforts to prevent Narnia from entering another war, at considerable risk to yourself."

Jon feels the weight of all the Narnians' eyes on him, and he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. It is too much attention. Jon did not do any of this for attention; he did not do any of this for reward. "It was the right thing to do, Your Grace," he says, hoping he does not sound disrespectful.

"Yes, it was." Aslan turns to glance at Peter, and the High King stands--as he does so, the other Narnians stand as well--crossing the field to join them. When Peter has taken his place at Aslan's side, he draws his sword, the brilliant steel and glittering lion pommel gleaming in the summer sun. Jon has just enough time to see that the blade is inscribed with words: _When Aslan bares his teeth, winter meets its death._

"You're supposed to kneel," Peter says under his breath, and he is clearly trying not to smile.

It dawns on Jon then what is about to happen, and he opens his mouth to try to stop it, but Peter says, "You deserve it, my lord," and Jon swallows back his protest. Any protest he could make would only give offense to Aslan, and he does not want to do that despite his discomfort. Instead, he sinks to one knee, and Peter taps the flat of his blade first against Jon's left shoulder, then his right.

"Rise, Ser Jon," says Aslan, in a low voice that is almost like a purr, if it would not be disrespectful to think of a Lion purring. "As a Knight of Narnia, of the Most Noble Order of the Table."

The Narnians erupt into cheers then, with a great deal of stamping of hooves and flapping of wings and smaller creatures running to and fro, unable to contain their excitement. Jon gets to his feet then, and when he sees the look Aslan gives him then he thinks that perhaps being made a knight of Narnia is not such a terrible thing after all. He had been feeling rather battered and tired from his fight with the Calormene ambassador, but Aslan breathes on him a little and he feels as good as new again.

"Sansa Stark," says Aslan, when the cheers subside. "Rise and come forward."

It's Sansa's turn to look uncertain, but she, too, gets to her feet and approaches Aslan. Jon steps aside, and Sansa takes her place where Jon had been standing.

"For your support of your brother's defense of Jewel and of Narnia, at great risk to yourself, you have our thanks," Aslan says softly. Sansa kneels in the grass before Aslan, her skirts pooling around her knees, and he rests an enormous velveted paw on her shoulder for a moment. "Rise, Sansa Stark, Friend of Narnia and Lady of the Most Noble Order of the Table."

Jon regrets that he never had the chance to see Sansa crowned Queen in the North, but the look on her face when Aslan bids her rise _almost_ makes up for it.

"Ser Brienne of Tarth. Come forward."

Aslan praises Brienne for her part in the rescue of King Edmund, naming her a Friend of Narnia and Lady of the Order of the Table as he had done with Sansa.

"Jewel the Mouse. Come forward."

As with Brienne, Aslan commends Jewel for her part in the rescue of King Edmund, and names her a Lady of the Order of the Table as well. When Jewel rises, she is quivering with such excitement that her whiskers are nearly a blur, and she pats her fur anxiously.

Jon thinks that perhaps Aslan has finished bestowing honors, then, but he says, "Ghost. Come forward."

 _Ghost_? Jon thinks, and he wonders if the wolf even understands, but after a moment Ghost comes trotting out of the Narnians' pavilion, standing in front of Aslan in the place where Jon, Sansa, Brienne, and Jewel had stood in turn. He looks up at Aslan, wagging his tail and panting a little, then he stretches out his front legs and yawns, as if inviting Aslan to play with him. Jon is not sure if he ought to call Ghost to him or not, but Aslan only laughs, a soft chuckle that makes Ghost wag his tail briskly, as if he's just a pup again. 

"Ghost," Aslan says softly. "You saved the life of Queen Susan twice over, and suffered a grievous injury in doing so. For your bravery, I name you a Friend of Narnia, an honor no wolf has never received." He considers Ghost for a long moment, then steps close to him, touching his nose to Ghost's briefly. 

Jon feels that something very solemn is about to happen, but he doesn't know what or why or what, if anything he ought to do about it, so he stays still, saying nothing. 

Aslan gives Ghost a long look, a look so intense Jon almost wonders if Aslan is trying to burn Ghost up with his stare, then opens his mouth wide. He looks as though he means to roar or make some other ferocious sound, but no sound comes forth, only a long, warm breath that ripples through Ghost's fur, and a sort of _change_ comes over the wolf. What it is, Jon cannot say. It isn't a physical change, exactly; his ear is still missing and there's still a long, thin pink scar running through his fur from shoulder to tail on one side from his encounter with the bear, but there seems to be _more_ of him somehow, as if he's grown larger without actually growing larger.

"There," says Aslan, in a voice that is deeper and wilder than any Jon has ever heard, along with something else Jon cannot quite make out. Ghost tilts his head to the side, as if considering what Aslan's saying, then bounds across the square to Jon with more energy than Jon has seen from him for some time. 

"And now," says Aslan, "it is time to celebrate."


	23. From This Day, Until My Last Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is a good king because he cares about his people just as much as they care about him, and he is as much a part of what makes Narnia _Narnia_ as much as her lord father had been a part of what made Winterfell _Winterfell_ \--and the other way round, as well. Winterfell and the north were a large part of what made her father who he was, and when he went to King's Landing, he lost that part of him. Will Peter lose that, too, when he comes to Winterfell with her for good?

Even when the feasting itself is long over, and Animals and humans alike have eaten themselves full to bursting, there's still a spirit of merriment in the air that no one seems to want to be the first to break. Aslan's presence among them seems to be the chief reason why. Even in the midst of all the Animals who want to see him and speak to him--mothers bringing their young to present to him, older Animals reminiscing about good times of years gone by, still others wishing to share their troubles and their triumphs--he seems as interested in the sixth hour as he did in the first. Aslan knows all their faces, calling each Animal and creature by name, letting them share their thoughts without a trace of impatience or annoyance. 

"Is he always like this?" Jon asks Susan later, when they are seated on a blanket in the grass, watching a show of falling stars in the night sky over the castle.

"Sometimes," she says. "Not always. It would be terribly predictable if he was, and Aslan is never predictable. He's not a _tame_ lion."

"I can see that." 

Susan slips her hand into his, lightly tracing her thumb over the back of his hand. "Thank you," she says. "For what you did for Narnia today."

"It needed to be done," Jon says quietly. "I don't need thanks for it."

"I know you didn't. But you deserved it," she says. It isn't the same as what he had earned before, in Westeros, of course. But Susan thinks perhaps (although she would not be so bold as to think she truly knows Aslan's mind) Aslan's acknowledgement is just as much about the Narnians as it is about Jon himself. _Susan_ has seen the kind of man Jon is, and so has Edmund, but he's still a mystery to many of the smallfolk. Aslan's public recognition for what Jon has done helps them know him too. "As much as you deserved to be King in the North. I know it's not the same as that," she adds, "but you've earned Aslan's favor, and that's good. And so has Ghost."

Jon can't help but puff up a little with pride at that. "He deserves it." He glances at Ghost, some yards away with Jewel and a small group of Animals, listening as Jewel appears to be telling a story with a great amount of enthusiasm. From her animated gestures, Susan thinks it likely to be the story of the bear that attacked Ghost in the woods. "What was that Aslan did? Breathing on him like that? It felt as though something ought to have happened, but nothing… well, I didn't see anything." 

Susan has an idea of what it might have been. She had been farther away from Aslan and Ghost than Jon had been, when it happened, but there was something about the way Ghost tilted his head and _listened_ to Aslan that was unmistakable. But she doesn't want to say, in case she's wrong (oh, she _hopes_ she isn't) and even if she's right, it's Ghost's story to tell, not hers. "Whatever it is, I think you'll know soon," she says softly.

He watches Ghost and the little circle of Animals for a little while longer, and as he does, Susan watches Jon. She feels such love and affection for him in that moment that she could not explain it if she had dared try. Susan has met few others so selfless, so earnest and honest, someone strong and fearsome when the situation requires it yet nothing but tender and gentle with her. She cannot wait to be married to him. But she had seen how uncomfortable he'd seemed when he'd knelt to be honored by Aslan, how the weight of the eyes of the Narnians on him had made him ill at ease. Would the attention of something as big as a royal wedding be a torment to him? What if they could do it more simply? 

Susan's line won't inherit Narnia; her children with Jon won't be in line for anything, and it's Peter and Sansa's wedding that will truly unite their kingdoms, not theirs. It isn't necessary for their wedding to be a state occasion. It can be simple and quiet, if that's what they want.

"Jon," she says, and waits until he's turned his attention back to her. Her heart is fluttering in her chest like a hummingbird's wings. "If we could marry right now… if Aslan could marry us, right now, without a great deal of ceremony, would you want to?"

Jon blinks at her as if he's not quite heard what she's just said. "What… now?" 

"We could ask Aslan to marry us," she says. "Right now. If you wanted."

A smile softens Jon's face, and Susan thinks perhaps he's tempering it a bit so as not to seem too eager. "Would he do that?"

"We won't know unless we ask." Her voice softens a little. "And then... we wouldn't have to spend another night apart."

Jon pushes himself up off the blanket and takes her hands to help her to her feet. "Then let's ask."

 

*****

"I'm sorry you had to put up with him," Peter says to Sansa, later in the evening, when they finally have a chance to speak. The celebration had been so loud and boisterous for so long that it seemed they would never get a chance to speak alone, just the two of them, but after a time they were able to draw back from the banquet that Aslan had somehow called into existence and sit beneath the pavilion where they could watch the show of shooting stars above the castle. "But you handled it well."

"He needed to be steered into Jon's trap," Sansa says. "He would never have done it, had he thought Jon a real threat."

"But he was a threat. And you made sure he did not see the trap before it was sprung. It was a brave thing." Peter takes her hand, raising it to his lips to kiss softly. "I'm glad Aslan recognized you for it."

That had been somewhat frightening. Sansa hadn't an idea that Aslan might want to _reward_ her for anything--Jon, certainly, given that he'd risked his life to defend Narnia--so when he called her forward she hadn't expected it. Her surprise had muted any questions she might have otherwise asked, and she hadn't any idea what to actually _do_ , but Jon had stepped aside and it only made sense to go and stand in the place where he had been. Then Aslan had _thanked_ her--Aslan, a being of such great power that he could _bend time itself to his will_ in order to protect this land, thanking _her_ , as if what she had done had truly been of any consequence compared to him!--and called her a Friend of Narnia. 

There had been half a moment where she had almost thought that if Aslan could just show up as he did and put an end to the single combat with a word or two, why he had even allowed the ambassador to come north at all? Why had he ever allowed Calormen or the giants of the north or anyone else to threaten Narnia even a little bit? And then she'd looked at Aslan's great amber eyes, and this time, she was able to see something she had not been able to see in the woods that night at the far edge of Narnia. It isn't something she fully understands. In fact, it feels like something she only has the smallest awareness of, as if it's some enormous _thing_ and she can only see the smallest edges of it. But she can see enough of it to understand that loving something doesn't mean one can always protect it from every bad thing, or even that one should, if is possible to do so. 

Sometimes, though, one _can_ protect what one loves.

"You've been quiet," Peter observes, when she doesn't respond. It isn't an accusation, simply an observation.

"So have you." 

"You've caught me there." Peter keeps her hand in his, and he turns to look at all the Narnians in the field, scattered about in clumps and clusters. There is a small crowd around Aslan, as there has been all this time; still others are sitting or standing or lying about in little groups or pairs, chatting and laughing and enjoying the remnants of Aslan's feast, or taking in the show of falling stars in the night sky. A little family of Foxes sits not too far from the pavilion. The children, five or six of them, have fallen asleep in a warm russet pile next to their mother, while the father Fox is smoking a little pipe he's packed with some sort of fragrant leaf, a scent that's rich and pleasant in the warm night air.

Peter is a _good_ king. That has been obvious to Sansa for some time now; she has been around enough kings and queens and high lords and ladies in her life to see that the measure of their true nature lies in how their subjects and servants respond to them, and the Narnians treat Peter and his siblings with deference appropriate to their station, but also genuine warmth and affection. Their visit to the homes of the Beavers and Ducks had given her a good picture of this affection, but she's only now realizing that it's an affection that goes both ways. Peter is a good king because he cares about his people just as much as they care about him, and he is as much a part of what makes Narnia _Narnia_ as much as her lord father had been a part of what made Winterfell _Winterfell_ \--and the other way round, as well. Winterfell and the north were a large part of what made her father who he was, and when he went to King's Landing, he lost that part of him. Will Peter lose that, too, when he comes to Winterfell with her for good?

"You'll miss Narnia, won't you?" she asks softly, though it's more of a statement than a question.

"Yes," Peter says in a low voice. "But you're worth it. And our children will be worth it."

But will it be worth it? Will it be _enough_? Sansa thinks it will be enough for _her_ , but she'll be living in her home, the place she grew up in, the place she and Jon took back from those who stole it from them. It won't be the same for Peter. Will she and the children they have be enough to make missing all of _this_ worthwhile? If time was normal, if he could visit whenever he liked, it might be different. It isn't normal though. When Peter comes to stay with her, it will be for good. And if they're wrong about this, they're setting themselves up for a life of unhappiness. It isn't something that can be undone.

"Last night at the feast," she says, "You told me beforehand that meant to announce our betrothal. You spoke of Jon and Susan and the alliance, and I thought for a moment you were going to speak of us, but you didn't." She hadn't missed the way he looked at her, then at the guests again before offering a toast to Jon and his sister. 

"I…" His voice falters a little. "I thought your plan might go more smoothly, that the ambassador might be more easily guided into Jon's trap, if I said nothing about us."

"Peter," she says softly. "I hadn't told you my plan then. Only that I had one." 

His expression then is enough to tug at Sansa's heart. "I didn't…"

 _He's too good,_ Sansa thinks, _and he loves his people too much._ "You didn't want to say you were leaving Narnia," she says. "Because saying it, telling your people you were leaving them, would make it real."

Something complicated plays across his face then, embarrassment and disappoinment and something like a bit of wounded pride, things that are private and difficult, and it isn't something Sansa thinks his subjects ought to see. Peter has been good to her; he deserves better than this. "Let's walk back up to the castle," she suggests gently. "We should speak about this, but not here."

Peter doesn't answer for a moment, then he stands, and his face is almost composed, impassive in every way except for his eyes. He offers her his arm and she takes it, and they leave the tourney grounds to walk slowly back to the castle. 

They don't speak as they walk, and because nearly everyone is still on the tourney grounds, they don't encounter anyone else until they reach the castle. There are guards at the outer gate and in the usual places, but save for them the castle is very still. There is another pair of guards stationed in the corridor near Peter's solar, and he acknowledges them with a short nod. 

"The Calormenes have been escorted to their ship, Your Majesty," says one of the guards, a centaur who is both tall and broad. "They are under heavy guard and will remain so until they are allowed to depart in the morning."

"Thank you." The door to Peter's solar closes behind them, and Sansa carefully slips her hand from his arm. Peter moves about the room somewhat aimlessly, as if he's looking for something to do, something to occupy his hands and mind. The only time Sansa has seen him so distressed was the night he learned of Edmund's capture, with all the frustration he expressed at not being able to rescue his brother himself.

"Peter," she says. "Let's sit down and talk about this." It isn't a conversation she wants to have, but she has a great affection for Peter, and she doesn't want this to any more hurtful than necessary. She sits down on one of the low couches near the unlit fireplace, and presently Peter comes to sit close beside her. 

"I didn't want to see it," Peter says quietly. "But when I stood there last night, at the feast, and looked out at all those faces, I couldn't bring myself to say that I would be marrying you and leaving Narnia. I told myself it was because of the ambassador, that it would be better if the Calormenes didn't find out I left until long after you and I were gone."

"But that wasn't it."

"No. It wasn't."

"You care for Narnia more than you care for me." She isn't accusing him, only stating the truth, as kindly as she knows how. After all, how can she judge him for caring more about Narnia than her, when she knows that, even as fond as she is of Peter, the North is more important to her than he is? Peter can no more give up Narnia than she could give up the North. "And that makes you a good king."

"I _do_ care for you," Peter says. "Please do not think that is not so." He laughs softly, a sad sort of laugh with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It wasn't supposed to be about that, I know. It was supposed to be about the alliance, about the heirs we both need."

"Yes." But the same qualities that made Sansa able to trust him and not fear him are the same qualities that kept Peter from seeing this as a purely political arrangement. That isn't who he is.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." Sansa reaches for his hand, squeezing lightly. "I would have liked to be married to you." She thinks in time she could have very much come to love him, given the fondness she already feels for him, which would have only made their lives together worse when his longing for Narnia made him sick at heart. 

"And I you." Peter covers her hand with his, and they sit together in silence for a time. "Narnia will stand by the North, even without our marriage," he says presently, and his voice sounds stronger now that he isn't speaking about his feelings; Sansa feels a rush of affection for him for it. "Your brother and my sister will still wed, so our families will still be joined. You risked yourself for the benefit of Narnia, and you will always have our gratitude for it." He gives her hand a firm squeeze and lets go, getting to his feet and crossing to the polished wooden desk at the far end of the room. "Come, Your Majesty. Let us finish this agreement between our lands and put it to paper."

*****

There is still somewhat of a crowd of Narnians gathered around Aslan when Jon and Susan cross the field to approach him. Jon looks about to see where Susan's brothers and sister have got to, as well as Sansa, for if Aslan agrees to this, they'll want their family about. He spots Lucy and Mr. Tumnus laughing with a group of tree-spirits some yards away, and Edmund deep in conversation with Brienne and Tyrion, but he doesn't see Peter or Sansa anywhere. 

"Do you see Peter or Sansa?" he asks Susan. 

Susan leans up on her toes, looking over the crowd. "No," she says. "But we'll find them, if Aslan says yes. I want our families here."

"Aye, so do I." He takes her hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm. The crowd of Narnians hasn't realized they are standing there, yet, with all their attention on Aslan, and Jon is content to wait their turn. "Do you think he'll say no to what we ask?"

"I don't think so. But it isn't easy to know what Aslan will do. He's not a tame lion."

"No, he isn't." Aslan is something fierce and wild and potentially very dangerous, and yet Jon cannot forget the way he felt when Aslan breathed on him, after the duel--his aches and weariness had faded away as if they had never existed. Then there is the matter of whatever he did to Ghost. Jon cannot think of a reason why Aslan would disapprove of him marrying Susan, but he doesn't like the idea, however small, that he might _not_.

It turns out to be an unnecessary worry. When it is their turn to approach, Jon could swear that the Lion is smiling a little. Susan curtsies and Jon bows, and she says, "Dearest Aslan, would you marry us?"

"I had heard you were planning a ceremony," says Aslan. "I am happy to attend."

"Well, yes," Susan says, "we had one in mind. But we thought-- _I_ thought," she amends, glancing at Jon for a moment, "that it might be simpler to marry now, tonight, without a great deal of fuss. I don't want to spend another day not married to this man." Her cheeks pink, then redden. "And we'd like you to marry us."

"Is this your wish as well, Jon?" Aslan asks.

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon says. "I want to marry Susan tonight, if you'll allow it."

"Then you have my blessing," says Aslan. 

Susan lets go of Jon's arm to throw her arms around Aslan's neck, burying her face in his golden mane as she hugs him tightly. "Oh, Aslan, _thank_ you."

There is a soft rumble from Aslan, something like a laugh and a purr. "You're welcome, dear one."

"But wait," Susan adds, stepping back from Aslan, looking about the crowd. "We have to find Peter and Sansa. I want them with us. I don't want to do this without our families."

Aslan nods. "Then go and find those you wish to witness your marriage. When you are ready, gather on the shore below the castle, and I shall meet you there."

They take their leave of Aslan then, so that the other Narnians who have gathered to see him can speak with him before he departs. They go to Lucy first. She's seated with Mr. Tumnus and a group of tree-spirits, and when Susan pulls her aside to tell her what they've planned she squeals in delight. "I was looking forward to a royal wedding, but this is a hundred times better," she agrees. Edmund's reaction is much the same, when they find him; he claps Jon on the shoulder and draws Susan into an embrace, near lifting her off the ground with the force of it. Tyrion and Brienne offer their congratulations as well, and Jon tells them of Aslan's instruction to meet them on the shore below the castle. 

"But Peter and Sansa?" Lucy asks. "I haven't seen them since the shooting stars started."

"I will find them." It is a raspy, low voice, a voice that sounds as if it hasn't been used in a very long time. Jon doesn't recognize it, although he feels like he _should_. He looks about to see where this comes from, but there's only Ghost, who had come alongside him at some point without Jon realizing. 

"Ghost?"

"I will find them." And this time Jon realizes it's _Ghost_ who said this. 

"Aslan gave you a voice," Jon says, hardly darling to believe it. He's never imagined Ghost being able to speak, before, but now that he's heard it, he sounds exactly like a wolf, _this_ wolf, ought to sound. He sounds like the North.

"Aye," says Ghost. "He did."

It sounds so much like the way Jon himself says it that he can't help but laugh, as do Susan and Lucy. "It's going to take me a while to get used to this, boy," he says, ruffling Ghost's fur and giving him a good scratch behind the ear. But he's glad for it, even if it's strange. Ghost has been Jon's constant and faithful companion and friend for so many years, and he seems pleased with this development. If he's pleased, so is Jon.

Ghost nudges at Jon's hand. "I will find Peter and Sansa. Do not worry," he says, then trots off in the direction of the castle.

*****

Much of what has already been decided in previous talks is still good, as they've already determined what the responsibilities of each to the other in terms of military and economic support will be, with the caveat of the differences in time between their worlds. Peter says he sees no need to change any of this now. He intends that Narnia shall support the North even though his marriage to Sansa will not happen. As much as they are able, each kingdom will support the other when called upon, to the best of their abilities. Peter rewrites what they already have to remove any reference to the marriage that will no longer take place, and as he sets about writing a fair copy for each of them, Sansa asks a servant to bring her writing things from her room so that she can melt a bit of soft grey wax onto each fair copy and press her direwolf seal into it after signing _Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell_. Peter does the same, pressing the Narnian seal of the lion rampant into a small pool of crimson wax beside hers.

"It's done then," Peter says. He touches his fingertips to the edges of the wax seals, quickly cooling on the parchment, and his eyes linger on the wolf and lion sigils for a moment. "In my mind, I know we're doing the right thing, but my heart isn't so sure."

"I know." 

There's a soft scratching at the door, the sound of claws on wood. "Enter," says Peter, and Ghost trots into the room. Sansa doesn't often see Ghost without Jon, so when Jon doesn't appear after Ghost, she wonders if something is wrong. 

She doesn't have to wonder long, though. "I have been sent to find you," Ghost says-- _says_ , she realizes, in a voice that's as raspy and rough as a Northern wind. 

"Ghost! How are you--you're speaking! How?"

"Aslan gave you a voice, didn't he?" Peter says. 

Ghost acknowledges this with a little nod. "He did, Your Grace."

Sansa marvels at this for a moment, and there's a little pang in her heart, thinking of what Lady might sound like, had she lived long enough, had she had the chance to come to Narnia as Ghost has. "That's wonderful." She waits until her voice is steady again before adding, "You said you'd been sent to find us?"

"Yes," says Ghost. "Jon and Susan would like you to join them on the shore below the castle." 

"Why?"

"They have asked Aslan to marry them tonight. He has agreed."

"Oh." She glances at Peter, and sees her own surprise mirrored in his expression. "Well--yes. Yes, of course. We'll be down in a moment. Thank you, Ghost."

When Ghost trots lazily out of the room, Peter says, "I didn't know they were going to do this."

"Nor did I," Sansa says. Perhaps they thought to keep their arrangements simple, knowing she and Peter would marry soon, not wishing to upstage them. But now that will not happen. "Should we tell them?"

Peter shakes his head. "No. We can tell them tomorrow. If they want to wed tonight, it's likely they want Aslan's blessing and little ceremony. Let's let them have that. There's no reason they shouldn't."

"You're right." She smooths her hands over the front of her dress. "Should we go down?"

Peter offers her his arm, and they go down to the shore together as friends.

 

*****

However Susan ever imagined marrying some day, it was not this, but she finds she loves it all the more for not being something she expected. There is only a small party on the beach: Sansa, Tyrion, and Brienne, Peter, Lucy, and Edmund, Mr. Tumnus, Ghost, and Jewel. And of course, Aslan. Someone has lit a handful of torches and stuck them in the sand, casting a warm glow upon the faces of their closest friends and family, and Susan thinks her heart might burst with love for all of them. 

Susan wears the same blue gown she'd put on this morning for their meeting with the ambassador (which after all that's happened feels like it was months ago, now, instead of earlier today), but Jon has changed from his usual black into a grey tunic she thinks perhaps he has borrowed from Edmund. It's the first time she's seen him in something other than black. Lucy presses a spray of flowers into her hands, sweet yellow roses and sprigs of lily of the valley that look like fragrant pearls in the torchlight, and then it is time to begin.

Aslan seems to understand their desire for simplicity. He asks if they will promise to love and care for each other, if they agree to stand beside each other in times of plenty and in times of famine, to be the first in every charge and the last in every retreat, and if they will raise their children to protect Narnia and all who live within her borders. They answer each question in the affirmative. When Jon makes his promises, he looks so at ease with his words that Susan is certain she's done the right thing in suggesting they wed tonight, instead of with a great deal of fanfare later.

Then Aslan gives his blessing, and Jon draws her close to kiss her. She expects it will be a polite kiss for the sake of ceremony, but it isn't. It's a kiss that makes her weak in the knees, and when he finally draws away he's smiling at her in a way that melts her heart.

That's her _husband_ smiling at her, melting her heart.

It isn't the last time he melts her heart that night. 

The next morning, she doesn't wake until late, when the morning light fills her room from the open door to the balcony, spilling a beam of radiant summer sunlight across the bed. Jon is warm and solid against her back, holding her close against his chest, and when he feels her stir he brushes his lips against her neck.

"Good morning, wife," Jon murmurs, nuzzling at her ear. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mmm." She stretches lazily, thoroughly content. "Like a stone. And you?"

"The best sleep of my life." Jon draws his hand over her skin, tracing the curves of her body much as he'd done the night before. She shivers in anticipation. "We could spend all day like this. Sleeping, perhaps. Or…" His fingers slip between her thighs, and she makes a small noise of pleasure.

"Or," she whispers. "Definitely _or_."


	24. I wish you good fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In Westeros, we say _I wish you good fortune in the wars to come._ But I'm hoping there are no more wars, for either of us. So I'll simply wish you good fortune."
> 
> [The final chapter.]

After breaking his fast, Tyrion has little in mind to pass the time, so he's glad to come upon Sansa in a corridor as he makes his way through the castle. "Good morning, Sansa," he says. He's not had a chance to congratulate her on how she handled the Calormene ambassador, and he's about to say something to that effect until she speaks first.

"You're just the person I wanted to see," she says, shortening her stride to fall into step with him. "I've begun making preparations for our departure. I'd like to be away by the end of the week."

"Then I take it you and Peter will wait to be married at Winterfell?" 

"No. Peter and I have decided not to marry."

Tyrion is so surprised by this he stops in mid-step, turning to look up at her. "What?"

"Peter and I will not be marrying." Tyrion has heard this tone in her voice before, a tone of careful neutrality, but he thinks there's some disappointment there as well that she hasn't quite been able to mask. "We decided last night."

"But I thought… when we spoke of it, you said you wanted an alliance with Narnia," Tyrion says, utterly perplexed. From what he could see, Sansa and the Narnian king were getting along very well--so well that Tyrion, if he's being honest with himself, has to admit he was feeling a bit out of sorts about it. Sansa's cheeks color, and she looks away. 

"Are you all right?"

She nods, smoothing her hands over the front of her gown. But it isn't an answer.

"Sansa, look at me." He cannot imagine what has gone wrong to make their betrothal fall apart. Sansa had seemed quite happy with Peter Pevensie, at least as happy as he has ever remembered seeing her. Surely he had not hurt her in any way… no. It isn't possible. Tyrion is quite certain of that. The man had only ever looked at her with stars in his eyes. And after what happened with the Calormene ambassador, Tyrion does not think that either of them would change their minds lightly. Something else has gone terribly wrong, something that Tyrion cannot even imagine. 

"We still have an alliance," Sansa says at last, finally meeting Tyrion's eyes. Her voice is steadier now, brisk and efficient. "Peter and I were in agreement that Jon and Susan's marriage would be enough to bind our lands together. It is not necessary for the two of us to marry."

"I see." Tyrion does _not_ see, but he has the distinct feeling that Sansa does not want to discuss it, and in truth, it does not directly involve him so he has no right to pry further. "Might I be of assistance in planning for the journey home?"

"Yes, please," she says. "I would appreciate the company."

 

*****

Much later in the morning, nearing noon, there's a soft knock at the door to Susan's chamber. "Enter," says Susan, and a young tree-spirit peeks her head round the door. 

Jon pulls the sheet up over his chest and attempts an air of nonchalance that he doesn't think is entirely successful. It's a new situation for him. The free folk had not given a single thought to whatever he and Ygritte did beneath their sleeping furs, and he and Daenerys had been mostly discreet about their relationship for the short time it had existed. Being married is an entirely new sea to navigate.

"Good morning, Your Majesty, my lord," she says, carefully looking only at Susan. Her cheeks are pink and a shower of purple petals shake loose from her hair. "His Majesty King Peter says that he would like to speak with you both at your leisure. He says that there is no hurry; it is not urgent. Shall I have your breakfast sent up?"

"Yes, Verbana, thank you."

"Very good, Your Majesty." The tree-spirit closes the door and Susan laughs softly, shifting onto her side to kiss his cheek.

"That was my maid," she says. "It might take her a few weeks to get used to the idea of seeing a man in my bed when she comes to dress me in the morning."

"It might take _me_ a few weeks to get used to the idea of being in your bed," Jon replies. Everything happened so quickly he hasn't truly got his mind around it. He wouldn't have it any other way, though. When he remembers how Susan looked last night at their impromptu wedding, her eyes soft and warm in the torchlight and her voice sweet and sure as she said the words, it just makes him want to bed her again. 

But her maid will return soon, and he's already embarrassed the poor girl enough for one morning; the small drift of petals by the door is testament enough to that.

"You'll have plenty of time to get used to it," Susan assures him. She kisses him again lightly and slips out of bed, reaching for a silk dressing gown. Jon has just enough time to admire the pale expanse of her back and shoulders and the gentle curve of her waist and hips for a moment before she slips the silk over her shoulders. 

It's unfortunate that Peter wants to meet with them, Jon thinks. He'd rather spend some more time with his wife.

Instead, Jon sighs and pushes back the bedclothes. The clothes he wore last night are in a careless pile by the bed, where Susan had dropped them when she'd pulled them off him; he picks them up and shakes them out a bit before pulling them on. 

"I'll have someone bring your things from the room you were staying in," she says, tying her dressing gown about her waist.

"They're all black." Once again, he's given up that color. This time, he hopes, for good.

"Then you'll need others," she says with a soft smile. She draws her fingers along the front of his grey tunic, and her soft smile turns flirtatious. "I haven't seen you in anything but black. I almost didn't recognize you in grey."

"Seems you recognized me just fine." Jon slips an arm about her waist to draw her close. Her body is warm and soft beneath the thin silk, and his fingers toy with the belt she's just tied. Does it make him weak to want her as much as he does? Then she kisses him and he finds he does not care if it makes him weak or not.

It is early afternoon before they manage to make their way to Peter's solar. The delay is entirely Jon's fault, owing to his inability to keep his hands off his wife. No, perhaps not _entirely_ Jon's fault, he thinks, sneaking a glance at Susan in the corridor. 

Peter greets them warmly, with a handshake for Jon and a warm hug for Susan. "I know I said it last night," he says. "But congratulations and best wishes to you both."

"Thank you, Peter," Susan says. "But I'm sure you didn't want to see us just for well-wishes."

"No, I didn't." Peter gestures to one of the couches by the fireplace, which is unlit, as the summer day is warm and there is no need for it. When Jon and Susan sit, he takes a seat as well, and it's only then that Jon notices his new brother-by-law looks somewhat weary. "I wanted to tell you that Sansa and I have decided not to marry."

There is a moment in which Jon cannot think of an adequate response. Susan reaches for her brother's hand, her disappointment clear in her eyes. "Oh Peter, no. I'm so sorry."

"As am I."

"When did this happen?"

"We decided it last night," Peter says. "Before we learned of your plans to have Aslan marry you."

"Oh, Peter, but you said nothing about it! You or Sansa either one. I had no idea that anything was amiss. If we'd known--"

"That is why Sansa and I decided to say nothing. We didn't want to spoil your wedding, or make you feel as though you couldn't have the quiet affair you clearly wanted." Peter looks at Jon, who has still said nothing. "It's entirely my fault," he goes on. "I realized I could no more give up Narnia than Sansa could give up the North. And the idea of having children with her and barely getting to see them, not be able to help raise them, not being able to live with her as a husband ought to live with his wife… I couldn't do it. That wasn't how it was supposed to be, I know. It was supposed to be political. Not about… well."

Peter slips his hand from Susan's and goes to his desk; he returns with a sheaf of parchment, which he passes to Jon. Jon reads over it, holding it so that Susan might read it along with him. 

"You're still honoring the alliance?" Jon says presently, looking up from the parchment.

"Yes," says Peter. "The union between you and Susan is enough to bind our kingdoms. And even if it was not… Sansa's part in helping you put the ambassador in his place is enough for Aslan to name her a Friend of Narnia, and that binds us as well. I can honor this part of our agreement, at least, even if I can't marry her."

It's very decent of him, Jon thinks, and he has a new respect for his brother-by-law. He reads the words written there in Peter's neat hand. Much of this is familar to him, as it was what was agreed in their earlier talks. But there's something new, too, and Jon cannot contain his surprise. _... a sum of gold to be paid to the Night's Watch for the fortification of their defenses and fulfilment of other such needs as may be required… a sum of gold to be paid to the kingdom of the North, to assist with such repairs and fortifications…_ There are other items listed there as well, aid that Narnia will send to the Wall and to the North, but to Jon they are all a blur.

"It's a gesture of goodwill," Peter explains. "I understand the Night's Watch is quite depleted, and Sansa's pardon of you might cause some complaint. I hope that enabling them to more easily provide for the remaining black brothers might help ease the sting of losing their most experienced former Lord Commander. And with the North in a precarious position… well."

It's a generous sum. _More_ than generous; it's a number that Jon has to read thrice before he's certain he's not misread it. 

"This is too much," Jon says finally, looking up from the parchment.

"Not a word of it," says Peter. "I am determined that Narnia and the North shall have a strong and mutually beneficial alliance. Strengthening our ally strengthens us as well."

There is sense in that with which Jon cannot argue. While this gift by no means makes Sansa wealthy, it gives her a secure enough position that she can take her time in finding a husband she _wants_ , not one she _must_ have out of necessity. And the aid to the Night's Watch will help the few brothers that remain buy badly needed food and supplies. 

"I would give more if I thought your sister would accept," Peter adds. 

"She won't," Jon says. 

"I know. So it will have to be enough." 

"At least with this, it's proof to her people that Narnia exists," Susan says. "And that she isn't just returning to the North with a mouthful of crib tales. It really is a bit fantastic, when you think on it properly. News of the alliance should help strengthen her position, shouldn't it?"

"Yes." Perhaps not as much as if she had returned with a husband and the potential for heirs, but Susan isn't wrong. Jon passes the parchment back to Peter. "I expect she'll be wanting to return to Winterfell as soon as possible."

Peter nods. "Yes. I believe she would like to leave by the end of the week, if possible. I've given orders for my men to supply her and Lord Tyrion with whatever is needful for their journey."

"Then I ought to see what I can do to help."

It turns out there is very little Jon can do to help. Sansa, with assistance from the Narnians, seems to have the preparations for her departure well in hand. He'd known that she would be leaving at some point, of course, but to actually see those plans in motion is a reminder that soon she and Tyrion and Brienne and their men will be gone, and Jon will remain here with the Narnians. 

It's exactly what he wants, but he still feels a little pang about it.

*****

All is ready for the trip home by the end of the week. Sansa would prefer to return to Westeros with a minimum of fuss, but Susan asks if they might have a special dinner in their honor the night before their departure and Sansa cannot find a reason to tell her no. It isn't a feast, exactly, but on the menu are all of the things that Sansa has grown fond of during her stay in Narnia, including two desserts--both chocolate.

"I truly will miss these wonderful chocolate creations that Mrs. Beaver is so adept at making," Sansa admits, when she finally puts down her fork. She wishes she could eat another bite, but she simply cannot manage it or she thinks she will burst.

"I don't think chocolate or coffee will grow in the North, even in your glass gardens," Edmund says. "We can't grow them here either, though we do keep trying. They need a warmer climate. But I think, Lord Tyrion, that from what you've told me of the wine-growing regions, the south of Westeros might be suitable. I've seen to it that some seeds of each have been included with your provisions, as well as instructions for growing them." He grins. "It can't hurt to try, anyway."

 

"That's incredibly generous of you, Your Grace," says Tyrion, lifting his goblet in acknowledgement. 

"Not a word of it," says Edmund. "While our alliance formally is with Sansa and the North, Narnia hopes to have friendly relations with the Six Kingdoms as well."

"I do think it would be ideal for all of us to get on," Tyrion agrees. "I believe we've all had enough of war and discord to last us the rest of our lives."

"I'll drink to that," says Peter, and he motions for a servant to come round and top off everyone's goblets. "To Narnia and the North, and the Six Kingdoms!"

"Narnia, the North, and the Six Kingdoms," comes the echo from the rest of the table. Sansa repeats the words of the toast and sips at her wine, then puts her goblet aside. She absolutely cannot eat another morsel or drink another drop. It seems she is not the only one who feels this way. There is a little more light conversation and then, one by one, the others say good night and begin to head off to their beds. 

Jon and Susan leave the hall together, Jon's hand at the small of her back as he leans in to listen to something she's said. It's a sweet gesture, and it tugs at Sansa's heart a little to see it. It takes her a moment to realize it isn't jealousy she feels. Not quite. It is closer to something like envy, for the thing she'd had so briefly with Peter, just being _comfortable_ with him, being able to share those small glances and gestures, is something she sees between Jon and Susan. It's something she already misses quite acutely.

She's about to go upstairs to her own bed when she realizes she's not alone at the table. Peter is still seated as well, looking somewhat sheepish. "I've something for you." He takes out a small wooden box tied about with a ribbon, placing it on the table between them.

"You've already given me too much." She is not sure, if she had been in Peter's position instead of her own, that she could be as generous as he has been. 

"It's only a small thing," he says. "I had meant to give it to you before… well." Peter nods at the parcel. "And now that you're leaving, I mean for you to have it. Go on. Open it."

Sansa tugs off the ribbon and opens the lid of the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft grey velvet, is a small golden pawn from a chess set, with a miniature gilt crown upon its head. She thinks of the evening he and Lucy taught her and Tyrion to play their game, and though Tyrion had defeated her soundly, she had quite enjoyed learning the game. "Is this from your set?"

"Yes, it is," he says. "But I can have another pawn made for it. I wanted you to have this one, because it made its way all the way across the board and became a queen. Just like you."

"And the queen is the most powerful piece on the board," she murmurs, remembering the rules of the game he'd taught her.

"I don't think you're like to forget that," Peter says. "But there might be a time when things are difficult, and I thought… perhaps you'd like a reminder sometimes."

It's a kind gesture. More than kind, it's meaningful, and Sansa appreciates the thought behind it. Not for the first time, she's sorry it didn't work out between them. But she reminds herself that Peter would be miserable away from Narnia, and the North would never truly feel like home to him. "Thank you, Peter."

He nods. "I should tell you that Susan and Jon will be accompanying you to the Lamp-post, but I will not. I think it best if I remain here at Cair Paravel."

"Of course." Sansa is grateful for that. It will be difficult to say goodbye to him, as she's grown so fond of him. Spending another week on the road with him will make it harder for them both. It will be difficult for them anyway, she thinks, seeing the play of emotion in his eyes. "Then I suppose this is goodbye."

"I think so."

She stands, and he does as well, taking both her hands in his. "I thought I would have something gallant to say," he admits. "But I am quite at a loss for words."

"So am I." Sansa squeezes his hands lightly. "In Westeros, we say _I wish you good fortune in the wars to come._ But I'm hoping there are no more wars, for either of us. So I'll simply wish you good fortune."

"But if there _are_ wars, you must call on us," Peter says. "We're allies now."

"Yes. We are." Sansa lets go his hands and only just stops herself from reaching up to touch his cheek. "Goodbye, Peter."

"Goodbye, Sansa. And may Aslan's blessing go with you."

As difficult as her goodbye to Peter may have been, taking her leave of Jon is even more difficult. It's an easy ride across Narnia, as the summer sun is warm but not oppressively hot, and they make good time, crossing in about a week as they've done before. Sansa almost wishes there was some reason to delay. Only almost, though. She needs to return home, to return to the job that awaits her there, and though Aslan had promised her that all would still be as it was when she left, she simply misses Winterfell. She misses _home_. 

So once they reach the western edge of Narnia, there is little reason to delay further.

The party dismounts, for a time, to water the horses and give them a moment to rest before proceeding further. And then it is time for the final parting. Sansa is surprised by an impulsive embrace from Susan. "I _am_ sorry that it didn't work out between you and Peter," Susan says, as she has several times over during their journey, and there's such warmth in her voice that Sansa knows she means it every time. 

"As am I." She lingers in Susan's embrace for a moment, and then they draw apart. "I hope we'll see each other again, someday." She glances at Jon. He's taking his leave of Tyrion just then, so she adds, in a softer voice meant only for Susan's ears, "Please take care of him. I know you will, but…"

"I will." 

No matter how many times she says goodbye to Jon, it doesn't get easier. The embrace he gives her then is nearly bone-cracking, and there's a definite softness in his eyes that Sansa feels must be mirrored in her own. "I've a favor to ask of you," he says, emotion thickening his voice so that the _you_ is more like _ye_.

"Of course."

He gives her a well-wrapped parcel, which she recognizes as like one he'd given her before he went off in search of the missing free folk. "It's a dagger, like the one I gave you. I bought them from the smith at Cair Paravel. This one's for Arya. If you ever see her again…"

"I'll give it to her," Sansa promises.

"Tell her about Narnia," he says. "Tell her to visit. She won't believe it unless she does," he adds, laughing softly. "When she's done learning what's west of Westeros, she can find out what's east of beyond the Wall."

"I'll tell her." _If I ever see her again._ What if she never does?

"And if you see Tormund--"

"I'll tell him you're a happily married man."

"Aye. I am." Jon nods a little in the direction of the Lamp-post, glowing softly in the distance. "You'd better go on, then," he says. "So you can make good time. The North needs their queen back."

Back on her horse, the reins are but a blur in her hands. She will not let herself cry, though. She is Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell, and she is going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... twenty-four chapters later, here we are. This story is finally finished. If you managed to get all the way to the end of this, THANK YOU! I appreciate you reading and I appreciate you commenting. Thanks for indulging me in this crazy idea. And thank you all for not murdering me when I broke up Sansa and Peter. I promise, Sansa will get some happiness!
> 
> While this fic is over, I am not finished writing in this universe. I enjoy the mixing of Narnia and Westeros so much that I'm not ready to let it go. I have a series of short fics, little "snapshots" of the future, planned that take place following this story, and then a proper sequel. One thing people have asked in the comments is, "What happens when the Pevensies go back to England?" My answer has always been that many things that happen in the Narnia books will still happen, but not exactly in the way that they happen in canon, since this is a "canon divergence" AU. I promise you will see more of Jon, Susan, Ghost, Jewel, Aslan, Sansa, Tyrion, Tormund, and others in this future, along with some new characters, and the sequels will be set both in Narnia and in Westeros, with a little more emphasis on Westeros. I hope you will stick around! To get updates, subscribe to the series [Narnia and the North](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596649). [edit January 2020: I've begun to post the next fic in the series. Please check it out!]
> 
> 12/19/2019


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